


A Mission From Sherlock Holmes

by clearinghouse



Series: Bertie and His Childhood Heroes [2]
Category: Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, Raffles - E. W. Hornung, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1920s, Angst, Bertie POV, Disabled Character, Established Bunny Manders/A. J. Raffles, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mentions of War, Partnership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-08 09:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12251370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: After a new friend issues a mission of national importance for Bertie and Jeeves, Bertie says goodbye to New York and returns to London with his man—Jeeves, that is. Within days of returning, however, and apparently by chance, Bertie makes two more new friends: Mr Harry Manders, the well-known ex-convict-turned-novelist, whose stories Bertie cherished as a lad; and Mander’s less famous older brother, a good enough cove, but nothing special—except that, for whatever reason, Jeeves hates him.





	1. A Mission of National Importance

I can appreciate how valuable your time is, and that there are a great deal many other things you could be doing at this moment besides for checking in on old Wooster. Therefore, I’ll not dilly-dally. There are times when a spot of dilly-dallying is what’s wanted, but this isn’t one of them. It shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve only got a word or two to put in about my brilliant man Jeeves, and the one time the Manders brother put Jeeves on edge as smartly as a splash of unexpected water ticks off even the most accommodating and forgiving of house-cats. Then I’ll be done.

Knowing how valuable your time is, I won’t go into too much backstory about Jeeves, or myself either. If the names are unfamiliar—those names, again, are Bertie Wooster and Jeeves, and I do think it is just Jeeves—then, in the interest of time, quickly fit into place an image of a tall, dark-haired, graceful, morning-coat-clad piece and he’ll be playing for the part of Jeeves. For the part of yours truly, think of one of those youngish fellows who shrinks from asking for quick directions from the lady at the till when she’s busy ringing up someone else’s goods, and even, I confess, when she’s not. Then you’ll have these two characters down all right.

The other two leading roles—those being the roles of the two Manders brothers—I will describe when we get to them, as they won’t come up for a bit. We’ll shelve those for the time being. On the other hand, there are a couple of other minor parts that come up right at the beginning, and only the beginning. These two roles are not really around long enough for it to make sense to go into detail about them. In fact, it may come to seem that their involvement in the story is entirely superfluous, but I assure you, it isn’t. These two characters will provide the start of what I have heard some dramatists refer to as the B story. And then, of course, this B story won’t seem to have anything to do with the A story when we come to that, but trust me, it does.

Getting to the nub, the two supporting characters are Dr John Watson and his friend-colleague, Sherlock Holmes. Yes, that is the famous Sherlock Holmes; the real one, not the one who wears the deerstalker in the pictures. I’m not ashamed to admit I was staggered when I met them. Well, I say, when one meet’s the idolized heroes of one’s youth, it’s a bit of a shocker, what? I was giddy as a schoolboy from head to toe. For a moment, feeling scatter-brained and unworthy, I mean. The grown man in me was reduced to the bug-eyed child of old.

And this encounter between dynamic duo and self was realized because the writing half of the Baker Street pair had fancied meeting the writer of the Jeeves stories. He was of the opinion that those said stories entertained and interested him a goodish amount. That’s what they told me, by way of explaining the whole thing, though I could hardly believe it. The fact that my stuff was liked by Watson, whose great writings had delighted and inspired the little leg-dangler Bertram during his spare hours when he was probably supposed to be improving himself in some way or another, was a heartier compliment to me that I know how to say thanks to. I was more than gratified.

Oh, but that was Watson’s part of it. As for Holmes, he had less to say concerning me and the merits of my stuff, but did say that he was interested in learning more about Jeeves. They’ve got a lot in common, don’t you know. They’re both brainy coves. Certainly, Holmes took to Jeeves like an old friend. He always preferred the company of Jeeves and me, to that of me alone. 

And Jeeves, on his side, seemed to warm up to the top-hatted legend, after a first spell of frostiness that I didn’t quite understand. 

Or, I shouldn’t say that I didn’t understand it entirely. I understood the bit that had to do with Jeeves not wanting to associate with people who were more likely to be members of my club than of his. Jeeves is a serious-minded, traditional sort of man. He wouldn’t mix business and pleasure for twenty quid, I daresay. The Jeeves who lives at Berkeley Mansions is a retiring bird, content to spend his off hours with an improving book, and not the sort of improving book that the common leg-dangler believes qualifies as such. Jeeves is a model valet, a paragon, et cetera. Not one to mingle with the gents. Not one to make friends with Bertram’s friends, that is. Definitely not one to stay up late for cards and dancing—at least, not when the cards and the dancing involve me in some way. 

That makes sense, too. It makes lots of sense. I can respect his mode of doing things. Most servants don’t play cards with their employers, what? A valet doesn’t shove his arm into a gentleman’s, as average chums might. The gentleman’s feelings on the subject matter not an ounce. The thing doesn’t admit for discussion. It doesn’t matter how friendly the valet and the gentleman are; when the valet wishes not to muddy the waters between employer and employee, the gentleman, being courteous and understanding, respects that wish.

Except, no. That’s not right. This time, the waters were very muddy—and Jeeves had muddied the waters himself. 

Did I tell you about that? When he and I were first called out on the town by Holmes and Watson to a jazz club, Holmes had said some magic words to Jeeves afterwards, and then Jeeves had firmly taken my arm in his. That’s right, my arm in his! It didn’t last forever, but dash it all. It was without precedent. My own scrawny arm had never looked so small than it did tucked away in the Jeevesian burrow.

It was a real corker, and very unexpected, to be treated as Jeeves’s pal for a change. The Bohemian detective and his companion enabler had turned him to it, somehow, and I was as delighted as I was astounded. The heart strings were thoroughly plucked and singing a happy song of welcome for the stern-faced counterpart. I can’t say how I knew Holmes made it happen, yet I’m sure it was his clever doing. Especially after I got to know him for a few weeks, I knew that it’s just the sort of wheeze he would work without my ever knowing how he’d managed. In some way, and with astounding regularity, he put Jeeves in a mood to forget he was a valet and to hover nearer to me than he ever had before. Jeeves would even sit with me, by Jove, and, after some time had passed, with only a moderate portion of stiffness. It was inexplicable. 

Not that I was too interested in gaining the particulars, though. I can’t express how grateful I was, to the old rascal and his second. It was awfully selfish, but I came to see Sherlock Holmes, and Dr John Watson, in a very different light from how I’d always viewed them: not as my immortal idols, that is, but as a free pass to a few hours with a Jeeves who wanted to be my friend. 

I’m sure I didn’t make too much fuss over this on the surface, though. The last thing I wanted to do was to embarrass Jeeves. Besides, I had always treated him as my friend, and that wasn’t about to change in any direction. The only change was from his end. So, I welcomed his new matching chumminess without comment. I quietly supported his lending himself to the conversation. The hold of my arm was as firm as his, if not as physically strong. And, well, that was it. He continued to be my flawless, proper valet in his on hours, and if propriety was to remain his motto, well, live and let live, that’s what I believe.

Anyway, I repeat, your time is valuable. So, getting to the point, we had met Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, and we had spent enough time with them for me to get over the shock of celebrity and for both Jeeves and I to get to know them as Holmes and Watson (even though Jeeves didn’t go so far as to drop the mister and doctor prefixes aloud). We had come up to the day when we were to bid them our farewells. The plan was to smoke a last cigarette or two at my place, and then it was goodbye and good luck. They would be off by train to the west of the country later that week.

See, they were touring through New York in just the season when Jeeves and I were hiding out there from my Aunt Agatha, again. It had been a long season, but at last their list of sights to see was checked off. Neither Jeeves nor I knew of anything more to add to that list. They were ready to move on to touring the rest of the states. 

As for me, a growing homesickness was beating out the fading memories of the latest near-marriage imbroglio. (Imbroglio is indeed the word I want; I checked with Jeeves this time.) I was ready and eager to make for the sea, and so was Jeeves. He had got us two tickets for the next ship back to Southampton. I didn’t learn for what time exactly we were scheduled to biff off, and believe or not, I never did learn it. When I did end up on the ship, a few days later, it was as if by magic. That’s why I like to leave the details to Jeeves.

Right, back to the nonce. Holmes and Watson had arrived at my humble flat as ordered, complete with dark brown bowler and crisp black top. The face of Holmes was distorted by that wry, sinister look that marks him when he is aware of something important that must have passed you by. Watson, by contrast, had a politely hopeful, anxious air about him. Jeeves let them in. 

After that, a sort of contest ensued, as it generally did when Jeeves let those two in. By and large, Jeeves initiates the contest by saying:

“Your hats and coats, sirs?”

Thereafter he makes an attempt to snatch their hats from them, and doesn’t forget to reach for the coats. But he’s up against two stubborn chaps who don’t think they need to be waited on by one of their pals. The tricky variable is whether or not Jeeves gets his way. He usually did. 

This time, Watson, after putting up a vain protestation or two, crumbled beneath my man’s iron will. He might have had a little chance of holding his own, had Holmes dived in to save him, but no help was incoming from that quarter. Holmes allowed Jeeves to win sans protest today, with all the air of it being a rare gift, specially given for the occasion.

Following this, be it to reward the winners or to console the losers, Jeeves never fails to offer the guests a drink. This next part of the exchange is hardly a contest. It has none of the sparkle of the hat-and-coat routine. It’s a softer sort of bird. Holmes says something, not unlike what he said now:

“That would be most agreeable; and won’t you share a drink with us, Jeeves?”

And I pitch in, “If it strikes you as a good deal, Jeeves, then I’ll support that motion.”

And then Jeeves says yes, or he says no, depending on how he’s feeling on the given day, with the trend being that New York was seeing an astonishing bull market for yes’s this season; and indeed, today, Jeeves replied:

“That is very magnanimous, sir. Yes, I will do as you suggest, Mr Holmes, if I may be so bold.”

My heart jumped in its cage. Jeeves hung up each hat in a place above its corresponding coat on the stand, and shimmered off to the kitchen to fetch a spare glass or two.

“What ho, what ho,” I greeted each guest in turn.

“Wooster,” Watson answered brightly, shaking my hand.

“Good afternoon,” Holmes said, and gave my hand a strong second helping. The opening ceremonies were thus complete. This was when I noticed that Holmes was carrying a white envelope, because he had to move it from one hand to the other to make space for me.

“Oh, you’ve brought your post with you? You can toss it into my own pile there, if you like. Jeeves and I won’t pry, you can be sure.”

My offer failed to rouse. Watson smiled at me; my eyebrows rose. When Watson quietly smiles while Holmes is smirking, it means that the latter has something doubly tricky up his sleeves.

“I am very sure that I could trust neither of you to pry,” Holmes said. “However, I haven’t brought this with me for the sake of paying you that compliment. In fact, you will observe that this letter bears no postage stamp. This letter is not to be delivered through the typical channels.”

“It is for someone here in New York, then, I take it.”

“Begging your pardon, not at all. Its destination is thousands of miles away. Only, the postal service is too—shall we say, public?—a method of transportation. I should prefer it make its way only by better authorized hands.”

This struck me as an extreme position to take. If one can’t trust the state postman not to peep at one’s missives, who can one trust? I said, “It must be awfully important.”

“It is of supreme importance. That is why I am prepared to entrust it only into the safekeeping of very trustworthy individuals, who I will ask to send it down its merry path on my behalf.”

“Ah,” I said. I didn’t yet see what he was driving at. 

Jeeves joined us, salver in palm. He set the dish-borne drinking receptacles on the sideboard, the table to the side where we keep the whisky and soda, and began the operations involved in pouring out the niceties for one and all. 

I felt my patience stretched by the delay. The way I saw it, he hadn’t really joined us yet. 

“I suppose I will have to make my designs more plain,” Holmes went on. As he spoke, he lazily waved his secretive parcel around a bit. “You enjoy a good hero story, do you not, Wooster? The intrigue and the romance that surrounds an agent who serves one’s country? You have indicated so, particularly in your reviews of Watson’s works. As it so happens, a mission of national importance has been presented to me for my consideration. It’s all on account of this letter. Yet I am retired, and moreover, I am not finished with America. You, on the other hand, a young and enthusiastic man of excellent character, are much better suited for this sort of job. You might be more interested than I in throwing yourself into a neat little mission—one that entails the protection of a prodigious state secret.”

His steady voice grew more excited by degrees, and I felt that I, too, was catching the fever. “You interest me greatly,” I said. “Is it a secret state secret?” I thought it only polite to ask if it was a secret, before asking about what it was. It’s no good to ask about state secrets that one isn’t supposed to know about.

There was something a touch rummy in the pause that separated my question and Holmes’s answer. “Yes, quite so,” he picked, after a few goodish seconds of wavering will. Presently he regained his nostalgically smug, wry attitude. “There’s one small fact related to the document that isn’t a secret, however.” In a manner befitting a squire regally handing something off to a knight, Holmes presented the latter he was fiddling with to me. 

I plucked the thing. It was very light in weight, rectangular in shape, and not at all unusual. “What’s not so secret about it?”

“That would be, the intended recipient, sir,” a deep and familiar voice answered me. 

I turned my head round. Somehow, without making the least whisper, Jeeves had come up to the gentlemen’s circle. He was leaning over, stealing a peek, as it were, at the face of the envelope in my clutches, from where he stood at the edge of our entourage. 

Heeding his words, I looked back at the envelope. Goodness, but Jeeves was absolutely right. There was one thing about the parcel that was most definitely not a secret: the name, which was written proudly across the front of the white paper. Or, it was possible that name was supposed to be the address. That would have made more sense, by the looks of it. There wasn’t anything else to resemble an address, at any rate. 

I read the name aloud. “Shinwell Johnson,” I read aloud. The name rang a bell or two somewhere, but the bells were shy and subdued. The circs. were no clearer than they had been before.

“He also goes by Porky Johnson,” Watson clarified. “You remember Porky, Wooster?”

My mind immediately was cast back to the repertoire of ridiculous names which each of my old schoolhouses boasted. There was a Porky in one of them, I remembered, but not a Porky Johnson. Not a soul sprung to answer the charge. I had never been the friend or acquaintance of that title. Of course, I wasn’t happy to disappoint the doctor, so I only shrugged and said, “Oh?”

Watson was eager to be helpful. “He was in the sketch I titled, ‘The Adventure of the Illustrious Client.’ I mentioned him as a former criminal—”

“Oh!” I cut him off with a snap of my fingers. “Him! I know him perfectly! Like a brother, I daresay. I’ve read that yarn a hundred times, you know. He’s the dangerous ex-prison chap who became Holmes’s mole for the side of justice, after serving two terms at Parkhurst, isn’t he? Quite a good sort of trump card for a detective to have, I always thought him.”

I’m fairly certain that something about my answer tickled Watson pink. He simpered apologetically like a gentleman who has been complimented, and nodded.

“Yes, he was a fine trump card,” Holmes agreed. There was a drink in his hand where there hadn’t been before I’d looked down at the envelope, but Holmes wasn’t drinking it, only swirling it. The drink had been given to him by Jeeves. “He was a very dangerous man, that Johnson. Shall I tell you something else? He still is a dangerous fellow, though he’s as retired as we are. You should be very careful, Wooster, Jeeves, when you two meet him.”

I blinked a few. “Did you just say, when Jeeves and I meet him?”

“How else will you and he give Johnson this secret communiqué?”

“What? We’re giving him this thing?”

“Yes, that is the mission I am passing off to the two of you.”

“Jeeves and me?”

“Yes, you and Jeeves.”

“We’ve got to pass something along to that criminal fellow?”

“Ex-criminal.”

“Ex-criminal,” I admitted. Holmes was pleased by the correction. “But where is he, even?”

Holmes laughed. “You will have to find that out for yourselves, my friends, for I haven’t any idea.”

My head reeled back in surprise. All became clear. I was enthralled. Was I right in understanding that Holmes, the great Sherlock Holmes, was entrusting with Bertram a mission of national importance—him, and his man, Jeeves?

Seeking counsel, I turned to look at Jeeves again. That was when I discovered that Jeeves had entered the circle. Having dispensed with Watson’s drink long ago, Jeeves stood well within the bounds, holding two glasses. I’m no genius, but one of those two glasses was undoubtedly for me, and the other, for him. Upon my looking at him, he gave me my drink. Then, underneath my very gaze, he took a careful sip from his, as if it were the most natural act in the world. A week or two ago, I wouldn’t have believed him capable of such a bold move.

The world lost all its heavy dreariness. For a moment, I forgot all about Holmes and his mission, because Jeeves had finally joined us. His presence absorbed me completely. I beamed widely, happily; unthinkingly. He gave a little smile of his own in reply, and I’ll swear my breath stopped short. Here he was, relaxing and opening up in my company as he never had in London. All my anxieties crumbled under the weight of his calming animal magnetism. If Lady Luck was smiling over me today, my arm would be in his by the end of the night. 

“Mr Holmes, am I correct in understanding that you should desire Mr Wooster and myself to locate this Mr ‘Porky’ Johnson and deliver to him the communication that Mr Wooster is currently holding?”

“At the risk of repeating myself,” Holmes replied cheekily, “yes, that is correct. Are you surprised?”

“He also said it was a matter of national importance, Jeeves,” I added, having recovered my breath in time to speak.

Undoubtedly, the subject did fascinate Jeeves. The man gave little outward hint, but I knew him well enough that I could tell. There was a special something in the tiniest crinkle of his brow. Even though he approached the topic with caution, I could detect the unwavering note of interest in him. “I confess it strikes me as peculiar, sir,” he said, “and I fear it is perhaps beyond our scope. Neither Mr Wooster nor myself is in direct service to the crown, or to your office.”

Watson, not being as familiar with reading the Jeevesian emotional state, was put off by Jeeves’s apparently lukewarm reaction. “Are you not interested, Jeeves?”

“It must seem to you also, Jeeves,” Holmes began again, “that I am placing rather too much trust in a young gentleman and his valet who have not long been familiar to me, and who have little experience as international spies.”

I started in excitement. International spies, we were to be? The implied responsibility was immense. My mouth watered. 

“Yes, sir; that thought also has suggested itself.” 

“In that case, I had better explain myself.” Suddenly Holmes’s demeanour shifted, in a good way. Having played his joke to its conclusion, his sardonic mood gave way to a friendlier, more accommodating disposition. “My reasoning is simple. Wooster is apt to enjoy the occasional adventure; and you, my dear Jeeves, are apt to enjoy the occasional intellectual problem, just as I did at your age. What better way can I express my appreciation of our brief friendship, than to leave you with a problem worthy of your perspicacity, and Wooster here with a chance at a real-life mission, one that could be fit for the cinema?”

Normally—and I gather that this happens to me more often than to most—when someone sends me off on an errand without so much as a by-your-leave, it’s not because that person expects I will enjoy it. Holmes might have been the first in a long line of taskmasters to delegate his task to me out of good intentions. Accordingly, I was humbled. “I—I say.”

Holmes smiled brightly on my account. “Naturally, if I am mistaken, and there is no appeal in what I say, then one or both of you may certainly refuse. I can find another person to take the job.”

“Oh, think nothing of it!” I assured him. “We’ll take it on instanter! Won’t we, Jeeves?”

There was a clever twinkle in Jeeves’s eye, which betrayed his curiosity towards the promised puzzle of the unaddressed letter. The pride he felt in response to Holmes’s praise of him was ten times as obvious as his curiosity. “Yes, sir.”

I was looking forward to the game already. Also, while I grinned at Jeeves, it dawned on me what a marvellous opportunity this would make. It seemed to provide Jeeves and me with a reason to continue our newfound chumminess, once Holmes and Watson were out of our lives. Jeeves and I would be a team, working together to solve an important problem, in some way or another, and in memory of our Bohemian pals. If we were matched together as a pair of Holmes’s international agents, I thought, wouldn’t Jeeves and I be akin to partners? And to be akin to partners was to be akin to friends. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself, yet the notion lifted me to a new height.

It’s like this. Until this, I had assumed that all would return to normal between self and Jeeves, directly we were reinstalled in the old homestead. Our shared friends would be gone. We would no longer play cards together, or drink together, or sit and share the same wine and cheese. Sure, we got on swimmingly, but to be honest, we were like colleagues, and not like pals. I suppose that wasn’t a bad setup. As long as that was the dream life for my valet, then that was the way it was supposed to be. As for my dream life, well, I don’t like to make a fuss about anything, don’t you know. 

Looking back in retrospect, I can’t imagine what I could have been thinking to make myself believe that anything would be different because of one measly letter. Yet, at the time, I was doltishly convinced that Jeeves wouldn’t remain closed and distant to me, just because we were bringing a piece of our mutual friendship with Holmes and Watson back with us.

“Hold, not so fast, now,” Holmes laughed again. “You each have the look of rearing to run away without another word! There’s no hurry. This mission I have given you is not so urgent that you must leave us right this minute. We have some time left to us, don’t we? Besides, before you go off storming any castles, my dear Watson has been dying to ask you something since we came in.” He smirked at the startled doctor. “For a parting photograph, no doubt?”

Not expecting the attention that abruptly was entirely on him, Watson simpered apologetically once more. “Yes, that’s exactly what I meant to ask. None of my silly habits escape you, do they, Holmes?”

“Come, come. We all have our little idiosyncrasies,” Holmes replied with a sharp, decisive tilt of his chin. “They are none of them silly. On the contrary, yours are most charming.”

The two men exchanged fond glances. There were descents of eyelids, pulls at corners of lips, and bashful tilts of heads between them. Some of the signals, I don’t mind confessing, went over my head. It must be a generational difference. 

Then, Watson shared his thoughts with the rest of the group. “Wooster, Jeeves, I would be honoured if you would have your photograph taken with me and Holmes. Such a memento would be very agreeable to me. I am sure we will meet again, but all the same, it is better to have something concrete to remember our time spent together, is it not? What do you say? Would you be free to sit down for a photograph with us tomorrow, or the day after, before our train leaves?”

I was all for it. Not to mention, I fancied the excuse to dress up nicely for a day. America, sadly, didn’t afford me too many chances at that. “Right ho!”

“Very good, sir,” Jeeves said, and he meant it.

We weren’t agreeing with the request just to be nice. Watson’s idea was a good one. Here were two blokes, old enough to be my grandfathers, yet so chummy and easy-going that the four of us might as well have gone to school together. I was going to miss them, especially when I was going to have Holmes’s super spy mission to serve as a bittersweet reminder of their company. A photograph might help to smooth things over a bit.

Holmes and Watson won’t be making another appearance, by the way, except for a brief mention in the last chapter. So, if you came only to read about them, you’d best skip ahead from here to the last chapter, or back out altogether. I won’t take it personally. Holmes and Watson are celebrities, who put other self-styled celebrities to shame. It’s true that the other chapters to follow will involve another famous pair, but the difference in fame is staggering. Some of my American friends will stare at me like confused deer whenever I mention the name of Raffles. No one was ever caught staring like a confused deer while I relayed an anecdote about my time with Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Meeting Another Beloved Author

Thus the B story of this narrative is begun: that’s the paper delivery mission assigned to young Bertram and his associate Jeeves, by the world-famous detective and hero of my youth, Sherlock Holmes. Naturally, when there is a B story, there is expected to also be an A story, and in this respect I fancy that the following chapter will provide an admirable answer to that expectation. Here it goes. 

A week or two had passed since I last said toodle-oo to our new friends. Holmes and Watson were off somewhere, possibly with the rest of the tourists in the Wild West about to be disappointed to learn that there is no such thing as the Wild West, Jeeves and I rallied round to England’s familiar embrace, and throughout our travels I never let myself forget about the letter. I was as keen on guarding the thing as a mother hen sheltering its young. I was sure that, if I happened to misplace the object, it would be an upset to King, country, and deerstalker-wearing gents everywhere that no consolation could erase. My mind was eased, therefore, that my fellow agent Jeeves had taken it upon himself to keep the letter somewhere in his possession.

We hadn’t found good old Porky, as of yet. Let me tell you, finding a person is not easy. There was very little for us to go on. All we had was the envelope, and I wasn’t about to open it. Holmes hadn’t explicitly forbade going at the letter’s contents, but only amateur spies rip open sealed parcels they are supposed to deliver unblemished and untouched. Besides, I couldn’t get at it without Jeeves knowing, and one doesn’t want to feel an amateur in the presence of one’s valet.

We did have the intended recipient’s name, though, which was a fair start. Also, Holmes had implied that the chap was to be found somewhere near home. At least, that’s what Jeeves reasoned from Holmes’s few words on the subject, and I agreed with Jeeves on this point. But it was my own idea to proceed by rereading “The Adventure of the Illustrious Client” yarn to work off the physical description of the man therein provided. It was quick work for me to pick the text out from a collection on my shelves, and to bookmark every tidbit about Porky that might come in useful. (It wasn’t a very flattering description of Shinwell Johnson that I found; the character gave the impression of an old, enormous, red-faced sailor who was out at sea for too long.)

I composed some carefully-worded letters of my own, one for each place that might give us a lead. There was one for the Johnson’s old prison, some for the larger night-clubs, a few for some shipyards, a couple of places I’d rather omit description of, and more. Though the addresses varied, the body of the text was the same for each: I claimed to be a long-lost relative of the chap and, being childless and without a sibling, looking for someone to bung into my will. I thought the enticement of financial gain to be had if Johnson showed himself was deucedly clever, and Jeeves, when I ran it by him, wasn’t averse to the scheme. 

Having written the notes and sealed them myself, I left them on the table in a tidy pile for Jeeves to take care of and send on their merry ways. The agreeable sense of having done an honest day’s work filled me. It bucked me up to be able to say, should anyone have asked, that I was living up to Holmes’s faith in me with all due seriousness. 

Jeeves, however, declined to rise to the occasion. Besides for serving me in various capacities, he made no initiative of his own to counter mine. But that was all right. Since he was already the steward of the package, he was perfectly allowed to leave the searching element to me. Nor would I dream of dismissing the importance of the messenger-work or the wisdom he lent to me.

Though it wasn’t exactly the chummy teamwork that I’d dreamed of, it allowed for hope for better things to soon come. I resolved not to prod the machinery, and to let Jeeves return to chumminess in his own time.

It was sometime while I awaited responses to my batch of inquiries that the A story was initiated by the alarming sound of a telephone ringing. Jeeves let me know that it was the publisher’s office, asking if I couldn’t come and talk over the possibility of my altering one of my autobiographies for American distribution. Apparently, it wasn’t fit for Americans in the state it was in. Some of the lingo I employed didn’t translate, they meant to say. The office wanted me to rename Brinkley Court to Brinkley Manor, among other things. It doesn’t seem to matter to the Americans if the thing is an autobiography.

In any case, an appointment was scheduled, and the following Thursday afternoon I was sitting in the waiting room at my publisher’s office, knees overlapping and foot bouncing in the air idly. 

There were only three people in that waiting room. One was myself, another was the receptionist who was busy doing something that was probably work, and finally there was another guest. 

Having nothing to do until the moment the receptionist would show me in, I considered this third individual. Unlike me, he had in his lap some materials, a short stack of full-size manila envelopes wrapped together in twine, and kept both hands on them. Most notably, he was morose. There’s no other word for it: he was morose. His shoulders sagged, his head sagged, and the air around him sagged, pulling the atmosphere of the room down with it.

I wouldn’t have included this unfortunate stranger in my day, except that the wait for an audience with my publisher was stretching out awfully long, and the severe and undeviating moroseness of the third individual was like a stench that could not be ignored indefinitely. Eventually I got up and said hello to him, hoping to put an end to it. “What ho. It’s looking to be dreadful sort of day, isn’t it?”

The man looked up at me. There was a visible effort in the raising of his chin against whatever weight was sagging it.

“The darkness of the clouds, I mean,” I clarified, as his confused silence indicated that he needed some clarification. “Shouldn’t be surprised if it rains in droves shortly.”

“Oh,” the man said, “yes.”

“Good thing we’re inside, what?”

“Um, yes.” The morose chin lost a few vertical inches. It was painful to witness. I was about to try again, when suddenly his eyes showed a hint of spark. “You haven’t brought anything with you?”

“No, they already have my stuff. Just called me in about changing courts to manors, and all that sort of thing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s the Americans,” I explained. “Apparently they’re easily confused by some words. The lingo wants editing. It’s a chore, I know, but it can’t be helped.”

“I see,” the morose stranger said, after he had taken some seconds to process. He glanced meaningfully down at his precious stack of manila, and said nothing else.

It seemed that he was waiting for me to ask about it. Keeping in mind that a Wooster doesn’t normally pry, on this occasion I made an exception and did exactly that. “What have you got there yourself?”

He replied slowly. “These are some old journals that I kept many years ago. Nothing much; only some memoirs of mine. I thought I would never see them published.” He spoke that last line more to himself than to me, in a dramatic sort of way, like a soliloquy from a stage play.

“Why not see them published?” I asked.

“No one was interested in publishing them.”

“Why not? Off-colour stuff, is it?”

He grew doubly reluctant to speak, as if the topic embarrassed him. “Are you a writer, as well?” he asked.

“Yes, in my leisure moments,” I said. From his use of the word “too,” and his use of the word “memoirs,” I was beginning to form the conclusion that this fellow was something of a writer.

He made a gesture resembling a nod, and again it was directed more to himself than to me. “That was silly of me to ask, considering where we are, though you hadn’t brought anything with you—well, then there are some genres that the public takes to more readily than others. You must know it as well as I do, even a writer as young as yourself. Sensational news and escapist fantasies, those are what the public wants.”

An aside: he hadn’t called me young because I was especially young, but because he was oldish. His greying hair was short and thin, combed over at the top. To be clear, though, he wasn’t as ancient as Holmes or Watson. If Holmes could be my grandfather, this newcomer was more likely to be only my father.

He continued, “But the honest stuff is rarely as popular. The important things,” he adjusted his grip on the twine-wrapped stack, “are lucky to ever see the light of day. Editors are always asking for more fillers, but a new recruit’s first-hand accounts of war? No one’s interested in reading about war.”

I sympathized with the man. He, too, was feeling the sting of the market’s fickle tastes. “I know how it is,” I said, finding solidarity in our common woes. “First, they’re turning their noses up at first-hand war accounts, then they’re demanding courts be changed into manors. It’s a bally nuisance all around. One would think that the heartfelt story yearning to be freed from the writer’s soul was about as sacrosanct to the multitude as a jar of jelly.”

“Is that right?” There was something in my outpouring of professional zeal that had caused the morose stranger to crack his first smile. It was a real surprise, and a grand victory, believe me, regardless of the shortness of the period for which it lasted. He tilted his head, making sure that he could see me all right, though we were separated by only a few feet and in a small room. Then, he moved his package to rest on the next chair over, and he stood up, his hand extended in greeting. “Harry Manders,” he said, by way of introducing himself.

“Oh, what ho. Bertie Wooster.”

“You are a very interesting person, Mr Wooster.”

“Thanks awfully,” I said. Unlike the name of Shinwell Johnson, the name of Harry Manders instantly rang of some familiarity in the back of the cranium. I wondered where I had heard it before.

He sized me up once more. “What is it that you write?” Now that I’d gained his attention, it seemed he was taking a sort of paternal interest in me.

“Nothing too much, really. I did pen one article on ‘What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing’ for my aunt’s mag. Perhaps you’ve read it?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“No, that’s quite understood. You don’t seem the type to keep up-to-date on Milady’s Boudoir.”

“Then so far, you have only written that one article?”

“Oh, not at all. I write about my life, too, from time to time. But I’m not confident that we should count those. They’re not the product of a professional’s sweat and tears. They constitute more of a diary—a stress-relieving hobby, more or less.”

“And you have undertaken to publishing these journals, I gather?”

I shrugged. “Some of them.” It wasn’t an area that I kept much track of. Speaking of journals, however, I recalled his own. “That’s what’s brought you here as well, then? Letting a journal or two out into the wild?”

He brightened again. “Yes, though I might not phrase it in that way. The other day, I got a call from this office expressing interest in some of my old unpublished memoirs. It was very out of the blue. I’m not often called up, except when it concerns my short stories in some way.”

“Fiction?”

“Yes. Serials, mostly.” But then, after a few seconds, there was a stop to him and the patient improvement of mood. Sourness returned to him. Consciously or not, he lowered his voice. “No, not always. My gentleman thief stories aren’t fiction.”

That hint resonated with my faint recollection of the man’s name. “Gentleman thief stories?” There was a strong association buried somewhere deep in the grey matter. “Oh—oh!” I gasped, as the brain put two and two together. “Now I know who you must be!”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, I read some of your stories as a lad. You must have written about the gentleman thief,” I exclaimed, “Arsène Lupin!”

The deduction didn’t produce the spectacle of pride and modesty that I was expecting. Instead, a sprinkle of unwanted soupiness crossed the stranger’s features. “No, that’s a Frenchman. I have nothing to do with him. I wrote about someone else: A. J. Raffles.”

“Raffles!” I exclaimed a second time, with five times the verve and astonishment.

My first reaction upon learning that the chap in front of me was the biographer of Raffles, I’m sorry to say, was one of weary alarm, and not of pleasure. Raffles is a gentleman thief, don’t you know, reputed for his keenness on pinching anything that’s shiny and will fit in a trouser pocket; and, in my short existence, I’ve been compared to this image many times, to the effect of suggesting that I’ve pinched something that was better off left well alone. Of course, it’s a misplaced image. I don’t spend my nights prowling through the upper storeys of estates in search of concealed alcoves. Anyone who tells you that Bertram Wooster has a mania for pinching things hasn’t got the facts straight.

This first negative reaction did not reflect how I felt in my heart, however, and thus did not endure for long. My second reaction, the more untainted and honest one founded on the innocent memories of childhood, was of bashful reverence. The eyes might have ogled, and the jaw might have dropped. A shining golden aura suddenly appeared around this man. I was in the presence of a legend.

Two legends in one month! Like Sherlock Holmes, Raffles was once a literary hero of mine. He and his partner-in-crime—the narrator, Bunny, or so I found myself remembering without the least effort—afforded me many hours of diversion, heartbreak, and general amusement. I felt once more that same feeling of unworthiness that had coursed through my veins when I had met Holmes and Watson. Dash it, this unassuming, thoroughly morose creature in front of me was Raffles’s Bunny!

“Bunny!” I cried. I was too flabbergasted to elaborate.

“Yes, that’s what my friends call me,” Bunny replied carefully. Whereas Watson’s reaction to my outburst of devotion had been a humble one, and Holmes’s a haughty one, Bunny’s response was decidedly measured. He exhibited neither modesty nor arrogance, but behaved as he had before, with a simple and straightforward manner. There was a new layer of watchfulness and doubt to his expression, and yet no other feeling to mark the fact that my unrehearsed cry had amounted to high praise. Perhaps the charm of meeting a diehard devotee had no sway with this writer—although, if that was so, then he was the first writer I ever met for whom that was true.

“Bunny!” I repeated.

The childhood idol in my presence continued to eye me cautiously. “Yes,” he said again, still committing to no other line of conversation.

It was no good for us to go on repeating this cycle. I manned up, and let the excitement of my younger soul gush out. “What an honour—I say, what an honour it is to meet you!” I insisted upon shaking his hand again. “Are you really the same Bunny who went traipsing across London’s rooftops with Raffles in moonlit tailcoats and what-not? How spectacular! It’s awfully good to meet you. I really can’t tell you what an honour it is. I used to look up to you and Raffles like the dickens!”

He pulled a half-amused, half-reproachful face. “I shouldn’t hope so.”

“Oh, but I’m certainly the luckiest devil in the West End for running into you. And what a lucky streak I’ve been having! Only a few weeks ago, I met and befriended my heroes Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson! Can you believe it?”

Bunny showed some little interest in the dropped names, though not a lot. He agreed, “Indeed? That is very lucky.”

“Only, that wasn’t exactly an accident, but I call it lucky all the same. Here, do you want to see?” Without delaying, I took out one of the photographs the four of us had had taken from my wallet, straightened it out, and showed it to my new friend.

You might be asking yourself now, why does this silly young ass keep such a treasured memento folded up in his wallet, and not, say, in a picture locket, or in a frame on a wall? In self-defence, Jeeves does exactly the latter for the photograph in his possession, and to have the two would seem redundant. On the other hand, I fancied my own picture to such an extent that I preferred to carry it with me. I don’t think myself to be absurdly sentimental, yet I surprised myself by how much I cherished and delighted in sharing this one little picture.

Shall I describe the scene to you? There was the four of us: that is, Holmes, Watson, Jeeves, and myself, in that anti-clockwise order, and all in evening wear, with the exception of Jeeves. The two older members of the party were duly seated at the front, hands in their laps, while Jeeves and I stood behind. I was keeping a one-handed grip on the back of the Holmes chair, while Jeeves’s counterparts were both behind his back. Holmes was smug; Watson was pleased; I was pipped; and Jeeves was content.

Bunny’s attention was unavoidably drawn to the photograph. First, it was no more than a glance, as if he hadn’t expected it to be the genuine article. Then, upon discovering that it was hot stuff, his gaze seized and lingered. He took the thing in his own fingers, to examine more closely. The examination was a silent and pensive one. 

“That’s Holmes seated on the left,” I clarified after a while, hoping to be helpful, “and Watson on the right. We became fast friends, you know. Like the best of pals, we all were, though I couldn’t tell you how that came to be. Anyway, I made friends with them, and that’s why we took this photograph together. That’s not a thing done with a stranger met briefly in passing.”

“And the other man in the picture—he is a friend of yours?”

“Oh. That’s my man, Jeeves.”

Intrigued, Bunny raised his head. “Jeeves?” His eyebrows pinched in concentration. “By any chance would it be Jeeves, the valet who works miracles?”

“Ah, so you’ve heard of him?”

“I certainly have. A friend of mine is quite keen on your Jeeves adventures, Mr Wooster. I assume that you are, in fact, the writer of those stories, if Jeeves is your man, as you said?”

This was all humbling and satisfying to the tenth degree. To have my lowly stuff known by not one but two of the domestic writers who had delighted and inspired the young Bertram was a blessing not to be taken for granted. My chest was crammed full of a dizzying pride. “You assume correctly.”

Just when I thought he was done with it, he stared again at the photograph, and none too lightly, either.

Bold, nervous determination manifested inside me. I pushed myself to speak aloud the inevitable, wishful thought that was pressing at my lips. I declared, “I think we ought to be friends, too, Mr Manders!” There wasn’t yet the spirit of being on a nickname basis, though I did not doubt that spirit would be soon in coming. “We seem to have a great deal in common, and so forth. I say, if it’s not a bother, won’t you come over to the old homestead for a drink or two, or maybe a quick bite to eat?”

Bunny raised his head again. He was amazed. “What did you say?”

Already, I had deluxe visions of a second sparkling photograph joining its cousin in my wallet. My pocket was on the road to becoming a positive hoard of childhood heroes. “I was inviting you to stop by and share in a drink or two, or a quick bite to eat.”

“That is—” Bunny broke off and hesitated. “Are you certain? We have only just met.”

What a retiring fellow! He had my highest admiration. “You’ve been a bosom pal of mine for years!” I countered speedily. “At least, I feel as if I’ve known you as a close friend for years. You’ve stuck to your place in my heart since the days of my youth, and nothing’s ever shaken you out. It’s only the reverse that wants immediate remediation.”

He either couldn’t or didn’t deny my logic. Much to my joy and delight, he didn’t appear to be against the idea of making my acquaintance. “That is very kind of you to say, Mr Wooster. Well,” he paused. “May I bring some friends of mine to accompany me?”

“Bring as many as you like. Space isn’t limited.”

“Then, I suppose I will take you up on your generous offer, if it’s no trouble. Thank you.”

Trouble? I laughed. “Nothing would please me better, old sport.” We proceeded to make plans for a sort of lunch at two in the afternoon the next day.

After the scheduling was worked out and complete, and he had jotted down my name and place of residence, there came the small talk that regularly comes between the climax of the interview and the toodle-pip until next time. I told Bunny about the time when Dr John Watson had come to my flat to issue invitations to a jazz club, all while I never guessed that it was the genuine partner of the great detective who was in my midst and making a social call to me. Funny stuff. Riveting in most circles. The effect was less pronounced on Bunny. He did his best to contribute the occasional smirk at my story, but there was no hiding that he continued morose.

I was just getting to the part where Holmes reveals the identities of himself and the doctor, when Bunny was called away into an office. He said goodbye and went away, while I was left to wait some more. I don’t know if he was finished with his business by the time I was strolling out the door, or if he was still inside and fighting for his stout stack of memoirs, but his path did not cross mine.

That evening, I told Jeeves about the affair. 

He listened attentively, or with as much attention as he could spare while some of it was portioned out to prepping self for bed. I was in the middle of relaying the fact of Bunny’s papers on the war when Jeeves moved to interrupt. “I am reluctant to raise any objections, sir,” he said, “but you seem to be implying that these memoirs are accounts of his made during the Great War.”

“There is no great war, Jeeves,” I said, keeping a straight face but really meaning to be humorous. 

Jeeves took the comment seriously, though. “I could not say, sir. In any case, it is well known that the writer Mr Harry Manders only participated in one conflict: the Boer War, at the turn of the century. The memoirs that he carried to the publisher’s office were almost certainly written in the course of that particular conflict.”

This shouldn’t have surprised me. Now that Jeeves mentioned it, I remembered that I had already known about Bunny’s Boer War business. Except, I had quite forgotten it; but now I recalled reading that closing saga of how Raffles, then stifling from the unrest of middle-age, had gone to fight in South Africa. I recalled also how his long-suffering friend had stuck by him throughout the crisis. The memory upset me. Even after all these years of adulthood to provide an emotional buffer, the tragic ending of that doomed journey still rankled painfully with me. 

Naturally, I don’t wish to spoil the ending of Raffles’s final adventure here for those readers who don’t know it yet and are still eagerly awaiting the chance to have their hearts broken. Eventually, however, I’ll have to give away the plot of it for my own plot to tie neatly together. So, consider this the first and last warning. The most salient facts of Bunny’s wartime narrative will be spoiled, and if not in this chapter, then in the next.

I thanked Jeeves for the clarification on the question of wars. “But who’s to say the man wasn’t in both wars?” I inquired, feeling myself clever for thinking of the possibility and with such speed.

Jeeves shook his head. “Mr Manders is known to have been wounded in action, in the area of the upper leg, in such a way as to permanently affect his locomotion. He was honourably discharged from the military, and could not have resumed service in his state. Perhaps, sir, you observed him to walk with a limp?”

I started in amazement. As Sherlock Holmes would say, I had seen, but I had not observed. Bunny had, indeed, limped slightly from chair to office. In my boyish excitement, I had failed to make note of it. Meanwhile, Jeeves had declared his deduction as smartly as if he’d been present at the publisher’s office earlier, with eyes gleaming with intelligence and unaffected by hero-worship. “You’ve hit it on the head, Jeeves! You must be right.”

He bowed a bit and led me to believe that he was glad to be of use.

For a moment, I was indecisive. As always, Jeeves made himself a marvel, and was quick to please; but there was not an ounce of frank friendship in him, like there had been when Holmes and Watson were around to magically change him. Certainly, Jeeves remained my friend in the lightest sense of the word, and was a joy for one and all to have around, but I daresay, he is—how should I put it? Closed, that’s the ticket. He is closed. Doesn’t give voice to his thoughts and interests, by and large.

I found myself sorely tempted to ask if he’d shed any light on the Shinwell case, or if he was at least feeling up to working with me on it at all, but my laissez-faire nature stayed me. It wouldn’t do to force Jeeves into anything, I told myself. I mean to say, I didn’t want Jeeves to be compelled into becoming my fellow international spy. It was supposed to be a fun thing. Surely he hadn’t forgotten that he was welcome to join in at any time? I’d had a taste of chummy Jeeves, and I was willing to wait patiently for his return. If he didn’t want to lend himself to the game, well, then there was simply nothing doing.

In consequence of these gloomy thoughts, I said nothing about the adventure of Holmes’s letter. The last words passed between us consisted only of me informing Jeeves of the rest of what had occurred at the publisher’s office, and requesting that he begin to make preparations for the expected company.

The following day, Mr Harry Manders arrived at the hour prescribed. 

And, but you’ll see, there was something a bit off about the chap’s arrival. The off thing was that the size of his party was less than ordered. At the office, he had asked if he could bring many friends to the Wooster residence, but when you get right down to it, he only brought one. But I’m jumping ahead a bit. Let me start from the beginning of the lunch episode.

There was a chime from the hall to mark their arrival. Jeeves opened our door:

“Mr Wooster’s residence.”

From the other room, I forced my gaze off of the newspaper that I was reading and threw said gaze over the shoulder. It was Bunny alone who stood at the threshold, seeming to feel out of place there. He answered Jeeves, “Hello, I’m Mr Manders. Mr Wooster should be expecting me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excuse me. Are you Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” Jeeves took hat and coat from the guest. As far as the removal of those articles was concerned, there was simply no contest at all. And, having once been enlightened on the point, I couldn’t help noticing the slight hitch in Bunny’s gait as he came in.

After Bunny was through, another man, also of advanced years, made himself visible in the doorway. Quickly this new gentleman shoved a notebook in Jeeves’s direction. Jeeves’s eyes moved energetically over the journal’s page. It took him no time at all to digest the contents. “Yes, sir,” was Jeeves’s only reply to the written message, and it was not a very happy one.

Between Jeeves and Bunny, there had been a delicious contrast of appearance and size; Jeeves was a very dark, very tall fellow all around, whereas Bunny was light-coloured and short. This second guest was of height and style closer to those of the Jeevesian character. The starkly white colour of the curly hair atop his head was the only offset to the man’s inherent darkness.

Having made my way to go greet these two older gents, I greeted them now. “Good afternoon.”

“Mr Wooster.” Sad though it is to tell it, Bunny was almost as morose as before. “Good afternoon,” he made the effort to say. “This is my brother, Ralph. He’s very fond of your work, and wanted to meet you.”

Ralph Manders smiled warmly at me. 

“Oh, what ho,” I said cheerfully. It’s always grand for one to meet one’s approving public, regardless of whether or not the approving public is one of one’s childhood heroes.

Bunny’s brother had no speech to give me. Literally, he said nothing. I didn’t think he was irritated with me, though. We shook hands cordially enough. It seemed, from his energy and from every indication except his silence, that the man was pleased to see me. 

I probed him a bit. “Any trouble finding the place, Mr Manders?” This didn’t provoke a reply from him, either. 

“Ralph doesn’t speak,” Bunny said. 

“Ah, well,” I said, “he doesn’t have to speak, if he doesn’t want to.”

Ralph wrote something in his journal, and showed it to Bunny, who attended to it without delay. From this close, I could see the lines, but they might as well have been hieroglyphics for all the sense that I could make out of them. I don’t know shorthand, and this was clearly shorthand. 

“No trouble at all, Mr Wooster,” Bunny read off Ralph’s pencil scratches. 

The scales fell from my eyes. All became clear to me. Ralph Manders was mute. Moreover, he was mute and all communications from him were to be relayed through his shorthand-literate brother.

I’d never come across a person with this particular handicap before. My instinctive reaction to this development was to seek Jeeves’s opinion and advice on the matter. I stole a peek at my valet, who hadn’t yet shimmered out of the room to start lunch or fetch welcoming drinks. He was, presently, only hanging up Ralph’s hat and coat in the background, and generally making himself out to be invisible. At this moment, there was a fresh something I noticed about Jeeves, a rummy something that arrested me like I’d been caught trying to carry off with a policeman’s helmet on Boat Race Night.

I don’t know about you, but I seriously doubt if I ever saw Jeeves seethe with quiet loathing for another member of the human race, as he suddenly seemed to. Under the figurative cover of shadows, he was staring cold little daggers at the second guest: the man who was the second Manders brother.


	3. Lunch with Bunny and Ralph

Jeeves had only let his inner demon show for a second. Before Bunny or Ralph could see the wrath of Jeeves for themselves, the stuffed-frog expression was in full swing. Quietly, he left us and went about the procedure of setting the table for the meal. 

I was alone with the legendary Bunny, and his mute brother of unknown reputation. There was no longer any time to wonder about Jeeves’s impenetrable state of mind just yet. It was vital that I make a good show and be a good host to my esteemed guests, all while moderating the enthusiastic fervour and reverence to a tolerable level. Such a successful show was by no means in the bag, and for a reason that I hadn’t foreseen in the least. 

Veterans with limps weren’t anything new to me, but chuck a few chaps without voices into my living room, and I’m faced with another matter altogether, if you see what I mean. The proper etiquette escaped me. I wasn’t sure of what needed to be done to ensure the man’s ease and comfort.

The man himself didn’t seem to share my anxieties. He was at ease, and charming. Except for the muteness, he moved and acted as any other person might. Moreover, neither he nor his brother gave me instructions as to how I was to approach him, as if I should already know it. Left with no alternative, I could only stumble forward and hope that the inevitable mistakes would not be unrecoverable.

As far as guests went, there were still but two. I hadn’t forgotten that Bunny had hinted at wanting to bring multiple friends with him. Thus far, he had only his brother to show for his involvement. I let him know that I hadn’t forgotten. “Should we be expecting any stragglers, by the way?”

“Not this time, no,” Bunny said.

I supposed his other friends couldn’t make it on such short notice. “Not a problem. There is always next time. Any friends of yours are friends of mine.”

Bunny cleared his throat. “Mr Wooster,” he digressed, “I believe I told you, yesterday, that I had a friend who is particular to your published journals. It was Ralph who I had in mind. Ever since he first picked up one of your stories, he’s not missed a single one.”

“Hasn’t he?” I said, a touch amazed that anyone would follow my career with such interest, especially when there was a journalist of genuine renown standing in the midst. However, it felt silly to speak of the man as if he were not in the room. “Haven’t you?” I corrected, directing the question to the proper recipient.

Ralph answered me with laughing eyes. He scribbled some more in his notebook and tipped the product to his translator.

“He’s very interested in the anecdotes you write of,” Bunny relayed. The implicit cooperation of their little write-and-talk double-act was curiously interesting to witness. “He would be glad if he could trouble you, over lunch, to answer a few questions that he has about you, and your valet, who works so many miracles in your accounts.”

This bewildered me. I hardly thought our unsophisticated life was worthy of this sort of scholarly interest. One would almost have thought that it was Ralph Manders and not self who had set the first wheels of this luncheon into motion. It was Bunny whom I was interested in discussing over bread and butter, not self and Jeeves. Still, my silent aficionado didn’t offend me. He had mysteriously offended Jeeves, but not me. An agreeable breed, he felt. And he wasn’t really asking too much of me, even if it was Bunny who, being the guest of honour and someone whose life was one long list of conversation starters, deserved to have all the attention to himself. “Oh? I don’t see why not. Always ready to tell the passersby something fresh and new about Jeeves.”

Ralph expressed gratitude with a bow of the head. Then, he picked up the newspaper that I had been reading moments ago, and pointed out the face of it to Bunny.

I may have mentioned before that Bunny was not in the best of moods. He was morose at the publisher’s office, and now he was morose in my flat. I didn’t know what for. There were, however, brief glimpses of a bright, nearly youthful sunniness underneath that occasionally shone through the dim. At the sight of the newspaper, he let slip one of those brief glimpses. The sad weight on his shoulders was let down on the floor for the time being. “You follow cricket?” he asked me, eagerly. 

It was the day’s cricket scores, which I had left my newspaper turned to, that Ralph had singled out.

“Like a religion,” I confessed. “You as well, I take it?”

“Oh, without fail.”

“Really?” I wasn’t sure if I should point out the obvious reason for doubt.

Thankfully, Bunny took my disbelief with ease. “I can guess what’s crossing your mind. You wouldn’t be the first to wonder. Yes, it’s true that Raffles was a cricketer; and yes, cricket never fails to remind me of him; but no, that doesn’t turn me off it. I loved to watch Raffles play when he did, and I still love the game, too—even though I could never play for nuts, myself!”

In both his passion and his level of skill, he had my deepest sympathies. I felt that our budding friendship had blossomed and grown in the short span of only a few seconds. It just goes to show how sport is one of the greatest equalizers of age. 

So, we fell into talking about the dismal outcome of the last Test for a bit. Ralph, who demonstrated little to no interest in cricket or its practice, nonetheless seemed to get something good out of Bunny’s enthusiasm. He listened to us blabber with exemplary patience, doubtlessly biding his time until he could ply me with his scholarly questions.

Eventually, Jeeves—having re-materialized suddenly in the room—announced, in a staunch tone that declined to undulate with any trace of emotion, that lunch was served.

We all sat down to eat: Bunny and Ralph sat next to each other, with Ralph’s pencil and paper placed between their plates, while I was across from Ralph. There remained a single empty seat at each end of the table, plus a vacant place at my own side. As I looked at the empty space, I thought of Jeeves. Needless to say, my taciturn valet kept a proper, respectable distance from us. He wouldn’t be joining us, and I wouldn’t ask him to.

The hot meal that Jeeves had prepared for us was excellent. That information won’t shock or amuse, however. It hardly wants telling. Jeeves is an excellent cook; that’s well established, and not a surprise to anyone. I only mention it as a minor aside, to give credit where credit is deserved and due. No, what you really want to hear about is what the Manders brothers had to say, or am I mistaken? I’ll get right to it.

Nothing disastrous had occurred thus far, and my anxieties had lessened to a fraction of their former selves. The vacant hole inside me where those anxieties had been was dutifully reoccupied by the familiar sentiments of pathetic reverence. Here was the one-and-only Bunny, seated at my unassuming table; here, come to life, was a writer and character whom I had long ago cherished more dearly than some friends and relatives. I hadn’t the foggiest what to do, or how to master myself; the limited practice I’d had from being overwhelmed by the giants Holmes and Watson turned out to be of no bally use at all. 

Quite without careful contemplation, I launched. “I hope you know that I don’t take your coming over for granted,” I said to Bunny Manders. “It’s a prestigious honour and joy to have to lunch a role model from one’s youth. I’ll have you know that I read the Raffles adventures many times over. Terrific page-turners, one and all. That one where you and he walk right into the house party of crime fanatics, all hot on Raffles’s trail? And that break-in of the bank on Bond Street, and how you didn’t know it was a break-in until the last minute? What suspense! Couldn’t put the things down.”

“Ah. Well, thank you.” Bunny turned to his relative, who was fiddling with his fork as a fascinated primate might with any shiny object. “Didn’t I tell you? This young man used to look up to Raffles and myself. He told me before that Raffles was one of his childhood heroes.”

This factoid was alarming to Ralph. He shook his head helplessly at me, and wrote to Bunny.

Whatever it was that was said, it entertained Bunny. Probably by accident, he dropped his moroseness just enough to let show a tiny smirk of good humour. “Yes,” he answered his brother, “that’s what I told him.”

Ralph continued scrawling down the sheet in the notebook. 

Bunny read aloud, still amused, “You aren’t aiming to become a gentleman burglar yourself?”

I swallowed the food in my throat a tad too harshly. Too many times has that accusation been levelled at Bertie Wooster, and by peers who were far less congenial. “Oh, not me, no. A cup of hot tea, and a nice book in a comfortable, reliable chair; that’s more in my line.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Wooster, he wasn’t serious. Raffles’s pluck won him many law-abiding admirers.”

It was strangely satisfying, I admit, to be so casually bunged into the proper group of the law-abiding. 

Ralph wrote some more. Bunny interpreted. “Ah. Ralph wants to know if Jeeves is a reader, too.”

I didn’t know it then, but this subtle segue marked the start of the brief litany that Ralph had prepared for me in advance. Alas, I was more interested in this Raffles talk, but the segue was a tidy one, and besides, a promise was a promise. “Oh? He reads plenty, certainly. High-brow stuff. The editions of the Encyclopædia Britannica to him are as many sequels in one long romantic comedy that never ceases to lose its appeal. If you mean to ask if he’s read any of the thrillers like those in the Wooster library, I can’t tell you. He hasn’t kept me informed.”

Bunny interpreted again, “Speaking of Jeeves, does he really work all the miracles that you claim?”

“To the dot, and then some,” I boasted. “It staggers the mind to recall the various arrests and marital engagements he extricated the young master from; that last one’s no reflection on the fairer sex, of course, but on Jeeves wisely knowing what’s best for one and all. I’ve often asked if he knows everything, in fact, and I consider it’s true.” It might have been, very possibly, that my great pride in Jeeves made him doubly godlike in my telling of him. “He doesn’t trumpet them himself, so it tends to fall on me to circulate the tidings. I’m not about to find myself short on miraculous stories to tell about Jeeves anytime soon, either. You see, I can’t write them all at once because there’s only so much space between the margins to cram the goods in. It becomes an application of triage, choosing which miracles have earned the right to find their way into print before the others. Yet Mr Manders must already know all about writing’s unending struggles, don’t you, Mr Manders?” 

“Yes, sometimes,” he said, kindly, but lacking the proper affectation. Neither praise nor appreciation liked to stick to Bunny overmuch, I was learning. He went on, speaking once more for Ralph. “You never fear, then,” his steady narrator’s tone weakened into a soft murmur while he read, “that you are keeping your own Raffles in your rooms?”

“Eh?”

“He means to ask,” Bunny clarified, though he clearly didn’t want to do so, “if you never suspect your man of living a—a double-life?”

Ralph shrugged apologetically, though neglected to rescind the outrageous inquiry. Quite the reverse. He eagerly anticipated my answer.

I laughed at the bracing idea. “Jeeves? A thief in the night? Pure rubbish. I’ll allow that he’s underemployed, as my valet. I always thought he could be the prime minister of any country of his choosing, if he wanted. But, the crux of it is, he doesn’t want. He’s already attained all the resources and excitement that suit him, I think. And nighttime is too late for him, anyway. He doesn’t go out pinching things, except sparingly, and in the name of justice.”

“Sparingly, and in the name of justice,” Bunny murmured to himself, taking a sardonic shine to that particular phraseology. 

“And,” I said, not wanting the point to be missed, “unlike every other valet I’ve had, Jeeves has never stolen from me.”

“Oh, I’m sure Ralph didn’t mean to suggest anything like that,” Bunny was quick as a rabbit to assuage. “He’s only curious about the sort of fellow the real Jeeves is.” That was gratifying to hear. He’s a nice chap, Bunny.

Ralph is nice, too, though in a different way. Eminently sociable, but hard to penetrate. It was curious, but, while Ralph was nodding his head humbly, he was smiling after a relieved fashion. What there was for him to be relieved about, I couldn’t guess. 

Finally, Bunny relayed his brother’s closing bits. “Your journals give every indication that you and Jeeves share a somewhat charmed life. Is that so? If it’s not too personal a question, do you and Jeeves generally stay on very good terms, as it seems to be in your published stories?”

I glanced around. Jeeves was no longer in the room. Probably he had departed some time ago, to attend to other business, once it had become clear that our party of three was happily ensconced and without complaint. I was free to speak, then, without fear of violating his sensibilities, which no one respects more than me. Even if they are more conservative than the modern man would normally go for.

“I don’t know about living a charmed life or not, but not a word of our peaceful cohabitation is a lie,” I declared, ignoring the tiny protesting voice in the back of the head. “If it seems in the sketches of my life that my valet and I are closer than the average gentleman and gentleman’s gentleman, then closer than average we must be. And that’s putting it lightly, I’ll add. There’s no other valet in the world quite like Jeeves. Why, he’s above and beyond the station of valet. The interactions between us approach those of friendship. Jeeves and I are like partners, don’t you know!”

Did I say something wrong? Bunny and Ralph each gave me decidedly rummy looks, as if the last bites of their food had gone down sour, impossible though that was. Bunny repeated, “Partners?”

“Absolutely. We’re an ideal team, me and Jeeves. He provides the brains; I provide the cheerful disposish, and some of the ready, too, sometimes, when the hard currency’s needed. Together, we’ve never let a customer down yet. We have our hiccups, like every other set, but at the start and end of each day, Jeeves is my first and last confidant and friend.” A bad sort of guilty thingummy weighed my head down at that last word. I retracted, and vaguely waved a fork-wielding hand in an attempt to discourage critical thought on the topic. “Well, ‘friend’ might not be the precise term I want, but it’s not far from it.”

Not a moment was wasted. Ralph immediately wrote a response in his journal, even more quickly than he had done up until the present.

Bunny glanced at the addendum. Then, for once, he refused to read the article aloud, to my great surprise. “Ralph!” Bunny chastised his brother, though in a soft voice, as a parent chastises a beloved child who has inadvertently spoken an honest truth that was better kept quiet.

There was no regret or despair of any stamp in Ralph’s features. He wasn’t angry, either, or I didn’t think he was. The man exuded calmness and charm at positively every turn. A fellow as good-natured as this one didn’t seem capable of writing anything that could offend. Just from looking at him, there wasn’t a clue to be had as to the nature of what he had written. The only clue, perhaps, was in Bunny’s grimace.

“What did he say?” I asked. 

Bunny vacillated between clueing me in, and letting the whole thing drop innocuously. Then, he muttered quietly in reply. “He said, ‘partner’ is not the term you want, either.”

I blinked, not understanding.

“And, I’m afraid, Mr Wooster, that I’ll have to agree with him.” Bunny, reluctant though he was to speak at all, having once decided to speak, spoke with determination. “Jeeves is a very fine man, I’m sure, but he is your servant. That’s not partnership. It’s employment.”

That didn’t sit well with me. In fact, it sat quite obtrusively, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, and threatening to ruin my appetite prematurely. I protested, as much as my timid spirit would allow. “Can’t employment,” I tried, “be a different kind of partnership?”

“If that’s so, then we have very different ideas of what partnership is.”

“Still,” I struggled on, because my heart was too much in it, “I think it’s a partnership. Jeeves stays on because he wants to. He benefits from the arrangement as much as I do, I think. He has a say in all that we do—sometimes more.”

“But you’re his employer. You have the final say in everything. That’s not what partnership is about.” Bunny was trying his best to be gentle, but it was plain that his heart was in this as much as my own was. His passion and his moroseness were boosting one another up more quickly than his soft-heartedness could keep up with. “Partners split everything halfway. Partners make the decisions together. Partners trust their very lives to one another, and don’t hesitate to do so. Would you and Jeeves trust your lives to one another, if it came to that? You called Jeeves your confidant. Tell me, does he confide in you?”

I stopped. That query struck me harshly. It was a verbal slap on the face. I had no counterargument. I was made as unfittingly silent as an empty music hall. No. Jeeves doesn’t confide in me.

Bunny saw, with growing horror, the damage he had done. The blow wasn’t enough to bring tears to the eyes, but it stung, and he could see it. The poor, gentle-hearted bird was instantly empathetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything unkind.”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” I forced myself to wear a forgiving face. “Maybe you’re right,” I said. “Maybe Jeeves and I aren’t partners, by a dictionary’s standards.”

“No, I—I am sorry. I don’t deny that there is a certain special something that exists between you and your man. I knew it almost as soon as I met you: it was obvious in the photograph you showed me. What kind of young man-about-town who is having a picture taken of himself—and with two of his greatest icons, by all appearances—chooses to stand next to his valet? I’d never seen it done before.”

The Wooster eyebrows furrowed. Was our photograph so odd as that? Unconsciously, I checked to make sure that my wallet was still in my breast pocket. Except, I found it was in my trouser pocket, but that’s not the point. The point is that the photograph was a sort of comfort.

“Well, it doesn’t seem to me to be a partnership,” Bunny said. “However, if you want to call it by that name, who am I to contradict?”

I did think of it as a partnership, truth be told, and no less; it was only Jeeves, good old Jeeves, that didn’t think of our relationship as anything to write home about. Some of Bunny’s moroseness must have grown greedy enough to extend its reach and take its meddlesome bite out of me, for I was despondent. A mild depression had come on me. I was not a partner to Jeeves. I was firmly out of his circle of close friends and acquaintances.

Ralph laid a hand over Bunny’s hand. I guess he must have set his utensils down when I wasn’t looking in order to do so. They shared a couple of long gazes, the meaning of which were obscure to me. Then Ralph wrote in his journal.

Bunny’s eyes veiled at the message. He was moved to a thoughtful slowness by its contents. Without looking away from the paper, he let me in on what his brother was saying. “He says. The way it is between you and Jeeves now, was how it was, at first,” a nervous pause, “for Raffles and Bunny. Raffles didn’t confide in Bunny, either, when he could help it. For a long time, Bunny was his—his tool.” The lips momentarily pursed themselves. “Raffles kept secrets from Bunny, even when he ought to have come clean.”

Fascination and hope gripped me. In some ways, this was like hearing a long-lost chapter of the lives of two of my most beloved characters. It was an unexpected windfall, and I was the soul of curiosity for more. So fascinated was I, I am sure that I would have forgotten my own troubles in the telling of Bunny’s, if the parallel that Ralph had drawn hadn’t rung with such promise. 

I wondered privately if Raffles’s treatment of Bunny had actively bothered Ralph, who was evidently an exceptionally devoted brother, and accordingly the brother had committed the mistreatment to memory; or, if Ralph had even known the chap at all, or if he was only reciting what his infamous brother had once confessed to him over a pint one evening.

That wasn’t the end of it. Ralph added some more. The written communication reached my ears via Bunny’s respectful help. “After they first joined forces—out of an amalgam of chance circumstances and necessity—Raffles expected Bunny to betray him, or to desert him, or to become immobilized by panic or fear, at a moment when Raffles needed him. But this did not happen. Bunny made himself a devoted accomplice. Even in moments of terrible crisis, Bunny was not mobilized. He moved. He acted. He supported Raffles.” Bunny raised an awestruck manner of gaze to Ralph, who was staring vacantly at the smoking pencil at rest between his fingers. “Raffles slowly learned that Bunny was his partner.”

This was all very nice, and would have served as good filler to break up the action in a Raffles story, but it didn’t instruct me much in the Jeeves department. There was nothing to be learned here. I already support Jeeves. I’m not referring only to the figure I pay him, though that has its importance, also. I can attest without fear of undue boasting that I am more than accommodating with respect to his holidays, his club (with the sensible exception of that club’s dreaded book), his conservative ways, and so on. Nor did I suspect that Jeeves feared anything like my betraying him to the police for something or other. That particular danger didn’t carry across the ages.

Bunny, self-confidence blazing, turned to me and spoke his own thoughts. “I think what Ralph is saying is to not be discouraged. Partnership takes time, and it takes courage; Lord knows that I was terrified, too, and that I made countless stupid mistakes on the way to throwing my lot in with Raffles. What exactly the nature of this odd friendship of yours with Jeeves is, that’s a mystery to me, and it can jolly well stay a mystery. It’s none of our business; it really isn’t for me to say anything at all about it. But I’d put money on a wager that, someday, you and Jeeves will be a team, reminiscent of the Raffles and Bunny you read about.” His fist curled passionately on the table. “You’ll wake up one day, and you’ll find yourself wondering how you could have ever lived without him—”

But I had already done that. On several days, too. I could have named a few without difficulty, if I was prompted.

“—and then he’ll wake up, and he’ll be wondering the same.”

I felt like frowning, a habit not typically characteristic of me. Bunny’s assertions didn’t seem probable. Firstly, Jeeves wakes before me, as a rule. That’s how it’s possible for him to be dressed to the nines and serving me breakfast before I’ve even had the chance to rub the sleep out of my eyes. It was a bad gambler who would bet on his waking after me on any given day. Secondly, I’m not chump enough to regard myself as indispensable to Jeeves. 

The cold reality of the state of affairs is that I’m not to Jeeves what he is to me. There’s but one person in a long catalogue of friends, family, and acquaintances who fills me with ecstasies merely by sitting at the same table as me, whose arms I imagine are close and warm around me while I doze off at night. It’s that same person who also happens to be so proud of his station as my valet that he’ll never condescend to be my pal. That’s Jeeves.

Ralph and Bunny were all agog for my reply. Inexplicably, they were hanging on, silent, impatiently awaiting the next words to pass through my lips. Jeeves would explain to me afterwards, when I recounted some of the facts for him, that the reason for their great interest was that they had suddenly come to see something of themselves in the Bertie and Jeeves drama. We were like their children, or their successors, or their younger selves, or whatever it is. The Manders brothers were hooked on our outcome like fish on a snare armed with the perfect bait for their species.

These honourable motives were obscured from me for the moment. For all I knew, in front of me sat only a harmless old busybody and his enabler. Come to think of it, the sight of them had instilled in me a funny feeling of déjà vu.

I wasn’t fit or ready to supply information that would satisfy their nosiness. Instead, I redirected. I asked about the first thing that came to mind: it was something that had occurred to me, while Bunny had been speaking of his late beloved partner. “Do you miss Raffles?”

Bunny was surprised. 

Raffles’s death is the spoiler I mentioned in the last chapter, in case there was any confusion about that. I can still feel the anguish of the legendary criminal and cricketer meeting his end in front of poor Bunny’s very eyes, after saving Bunny’s life by dragging his wounded body to cover. I recall that Raffles had foiled some traitor’s plot against the home team, too, during his enlistment period, but that part of the adventure hadn’t hit my weakest spots with a hundredth as much of a pounding.

Bunny was at a frightful loss to respond in any way or shape. Then, Ralph grasped Bunny’s hand strongly in his own. Their eyes met. Their palms pressed together, like the palms of two children told to buddy-up so that neither will airily wander off from the pack and get lost. This brotherly gesture of reassurance was maintained for a while, and it seemed to buck Bunny up considerably. “Yes, I do miss Raffles,” he said, in reply to me, almost smiling at me now, if you can believe it. “But don’t feel bad for me. I have Ralph.”

You mustn’t think less of me if I felt a certain miserable whatsit, when confronted with the blatant evidence of the deep bond and confidence that thrived between younger brother and older. A sort of glum envy, I felt. (For the record, at some point Bunny let slip that Ralph was the older, though he skipped over by how many years.) 

Yet I was also happy for them. These two nice blokes, blokes simple-hearted enough to take up an offer for lunch at a stranger’s flat at a day’s notice without a second thought, deserved peace and contentment, and they had it. It was an honest pleasure to witness. I said something about being pleased. And the subjects of Jeeves and of tender feelings were not discussed further. 

The lunch continued amiable, and was finished soon after. We smoked for a quarter less than an hour, talking of this and that. Mostly it was to do with getting a firm hold of current events; I learned of where they lived (in the suburbs), and about Ralph’s automobile (which he excused because they lived in the suburbs), and that some choice selections of Bunny’s Boer War journals were going through with the publishing. We were all keenly aware of Jeeves biffing about, as he diligently cleaned up after our mess, but nothing more was said of him. 

Jeeves returned hat and coat to each guest. To his credit, he did not allow his seething hatred of Ralph to affect the performance of these valeting duties. Ralph, similarly, pretended not to know Jeeves from any other valet. After that, Bunny gave the final farewells on his own behalf and on behalf of his brother, and then they were both gone.

Immediately Jeeves combed over the premises, like a Scotland Yard constable searching for the murder weapon. Once this extraordinary task was finished (and to no observable effect) he asked me, “Have you not misplaced anything of value, sir?”

“No, I haven’t. Should I have?”

“If you could make certain of your pocket watch and wallet, sir?”

This was exceptional, but I did so. None of the items on my person were disturbed. “Right where I left them. You must enlighten me. What’s the cause for concern, Jeeves?”

“Mr Harry Manders and Mr Ralph Manders, while regular and inoffensive gentlemen in many outward respects, each carries with himself a proven record of past criminal convictions. They are not to be entirely trusted, sir.”

“Jeeves!” Was this the cause for all the ire and disgust they inspired in Jeeves? Granted, this was the first that I was hearing about Ralph’s dubious past, but as soon as Jeeves had said it, I took its veracity for granted and decided that it didn’t change anything after all. Bunny and his relative, too, might have pulled off some grand capers in the distant past, and in another world, but I couldn’t see them taking advantage of my flat in the present day. “You surprise me. You suspect those harmless old coves of a felony?”

“I am only speaking practically, sir.”

“Tell me, is anything out of its place?”

“No, sir.”

“But you still don’t hold them to be as trustworthy as the rise of the morning sun?”

“No, sir.”

I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. “Have you run into them before, Jeeves? Do you know Ralph Manders from previous experience?”

That dreadful tight-lipped, stuffed-frog routine of his displayed itself prominently. The features were closed and set as steel. It was as if he was telling me, Today’s not the day for one to start confiding in you, Wooster. “No, sir.”

I didn’t press him further. Jeeves wasn’t going to let me in on the big reveal, and I didn’t expect him to. You probably know by now, but I’ll repeat it: Jeeves keeps his secrets, I don’t push. I would have loved to share in my man’s joys and troubles, if he would only let me, but he wouldn’t, and that’s simply the way things go in life.

The rest of the day, I was in a flummoxed condition. Between a rock and a hard place, or so the saying goes. I wandered about the afternoon in a sort of stupor. At least Jeeves wasn’t angry with me this time, and that’s no small blessing, but he was distant and unhappy. I had no way of finding out how or why. I couldn’t ask Jeeves, and I didn’t dare to ask Ralph, for fear that Jeeves wouldn’t like it much if I did.

Fortunately, that night, while I was rereading “The Illustrious Client” for the umpteenth time, a different mood came upon me. A transformation occurred. I was reminded by Watson’s yarn of the important mission that Holmes had trusted to me. That was the search for the ex-convict mole, if you forgot. Holmes would not have assigned so consequential a task to the first random cove who came along; Holmes must have penetrated my mousy exterior to discover the heart of a man who could be called upon for action and resolve. I won’t say the soul was inflated with a new sense of bravado, while I remembered how Holmes trusted in me, but it was nearish to that. 

I reflected that it wasn’t fitting for an international spy in the service of the great Sherlock Holmes to laze about moping. A spy could strike out an independent path and lend himself to digging deeper into the problem. A particularly skilled spy might even be able to effect some solution, if enough of the circs. turned in his favour.

Jeeves was unwilling or unable to help me. Holmes and Watson weren’t here to help me, either. Only I could set wrongs to rights. Only I was in a position to throw on the plainclothes, forge an attack plan, and investigate the mystery of Ralph Manders. If only Holmes could know that he hadn’t recruited Wooster to his side for nothing! All I wanted now was a deerstalker.

Bertram Wilberforce Wooster, junior detective, was on the case.


	4. I Become a Detective

My resolve to investigate the second Manders brother withstood the test of time. If anything, a good night’s rest and a nap or two were exactly what the doctor ordered. I was ready to roll up the sleeves and get to work at once. The truth of the man named Ralph was my target. But what and where was my thread? (A thread is the thing that detective spies follow to arrive at their targets. These threads are described as red, when they are given a colour.)

The way I saw it, my options were few and finite. I could, for the first option, direct inquiries concerning Ralph to relevant third parties; however, the only possible mutual friends that I could think of were the postman and Bunny. My second option was to pigeonhole Bunny at a publisher’s office and wheedle him for the dynamite, but there was always the risk that Bunny was as in the dark as I was. A third option was to go straight for the target and ask the tough questions, regardless of the embarrassment that might cause Jeeves, though when it came to Ralph’s upcoming movements, I wasn’t in possession of any facts. A fourth option was to study the old source material for any lucky clues; I did check my shelves, and I owned three of the four Raffles volumes, but they were all full-length and it would take too long to peruse them.

Without having reached a decision, I jumped ahead to dressing the part. I was surprised to discover, after three buzzes through my wardrobe, that I don’t own a deerstalker. It’s strange, but true. Must have been Jeeves’s doing. He’s not partial to exotic headwear, and he manages my wardrobe. So, I couldn’t put on the Holmesian work clothes. On the other hand, when I think of an official plainclothes detective out of Scotland Yard, I imagine a trench coat hanging over a dull suit. I must have seen this style at the cinema once, or maybe a Broadway play. Fortunately for me, this was an outfit that was indeed available in pieces, each beautifully pressed and ironed, strung up in my wardrobe. I threw them on, and added a pork pie hat, set ominously low about the brow to intimidate and deter the curious.

Ah, but young Wooster, you might be saying, how did you manage to dress without the dapper Jeeves at your side to guide and assist? To this reasonable objection, I respond candidly that I did not dress well. The most notable lapse was the lopsided bows of the shoelaces, and the uneven heights of where the clasps of the braces (that’s suspenders, in American) sat abreast of the shirtfront. Also, the long end of my pale neck-tie was too long, and the short end was too short. I retied the thing twice and finally gave it up as a bad job.

At this juncture, I was leaning towards finding out when Bunny would be at the publisher’s office next, though I hadn’t settled firmly on the course. In any case, I was itching to embrace my mission and get going. “Jeeves,” I called, “I’m going out.”

Jeeves appeared. It was nice to see that he was doing a little better now than in the hours after he took offence to Ralph the previous day. Initially, he might have even been glad to see the welcoming features of young master’s map, but that was short-lived. The gaze of sartorial disapproval came hot and fresh from the oven. “Are you suggesting, sir,” he intoned guardedly, “that you intend to leave the flat in your current state of costume?”

“Yes, I do, Jeeves.”

“Sir—”

“Normally, I would concede to your tasteful regulations. Your standards of clothing, while restrictive at times, are sound, and I defer to them. I can readily understand the importance: my appearance reflects strongly on you, and neither of us would have it be a poor reflection. But today must be an exception—an irregular and non-recurring blight in an otherwise unblemished schedule. The trench coat and suit are for a good cause, I assure you.”

“How is that, sir?”

This was a tricky spot, because I couldn’t well admit that I was investigating the secret of his loathing of the Manders brother. I told as much of the truth as I could. “Today, I must be a plainclothes detective. It may even be that I will be obliged to go undercover. I am inquiring into a very important mystery.”

Jeeves contemplated my meaning. “Would that be the mystery of Mr Shinwell ‘Porky’ Johnson, sir, which was recently presented to us by Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

I could have easily fallen back on my heels. Old Porky had fallen clean out of my head since the night before, what with all this taxing business with Jeeves and Ralph. It was quite a jostle, to think that Jeeves was misinterpreting one task for the other. Yet it was a splendidly good out for me, and I wasn’t about to let a good thing pass me by. “It might be,” I observed, “it might be.”

“And how will you be conducting your inquiry, sir?”

“Oh, I couldn’t say. I haven’t decided yet.”

It was obvious that Jeeves wasn’t wholly convinced. Nonetheless, his attitude changed. He looked on the young master with less of the hidebound distaste, and more of a sentiment akin to pity. He dithered for a few seconds, and then, to my profound amazement, he came up to me, undid my necktie, and proceeded to tie it properly. 

“If you will allow me, sir?” he had asked neutrally, but the words were delayed in reaching me, I was so astounded. “If it is that you intend to proceed in an undercover role, then some small use of disguising makeup to camouflage your identity would not go amiss. If I might be permitted to administer its application?”

I groped for something intelligent to say, and came up empty-handed. This unexpected tolerance of his knocked the breath out of me. His nearness to me, and his hands on me, contributed to that breathlessness, also. “Certainly!” I managed to say.

“And if may be so bold, sir, as to recommend a beginning course of action? Though I do not know your destination and cannot speak in particulars, I have often found that the domestic staff of households and the cleaning service-people of businesses are very capable of providing valuable insights, and are regularly disposed to provide these insights free of charge. You might begin your investigations by questioning this class of individuals.”

I ogled. It was a genius recommendation. I really should have thought of it myself—but I didn’t. I’m not a brainy cove like Jeeves. “Why, thank you, Jeeves,” I murmured. I wouldn’t soon forget these splendid acts of charity and kindness. 

“Very good, sir,” he said.

Half an hour later, a receding chap in a trench coat went out of Bertie Wooster’s flat, his face and hands a little tanned from a dab of cosmetics and his heart as tingly as a leg that’s been moved after being sat on.

I took Jeeves’s advice. I hailed a cab and gave the driver the street of the Manders residence. It remained to be seen exactly what sort of servants or cooks or butlers were in the brothers’ employ, but as long as there was at least one, I had my third party. I could manage. Holmes had often done more with less to work from, after all.

Their house was just over half an hour from us, for anyone who knew the way. For me and my taxi, it was forty-one or so minutes altogether before I was certain that I was looking at the right door. By outward appearances, their digs didn’t strike me as anything special. Sized appropriately for two, I gathered, or a pinch larger. It was doubtful that they kept many hands about—and it was odd, how unfortunate that predicament suddenly was to me. I had never cared about the number of domestic staff in a place before, you know. Anyway, I paid my fare, laid eyes on the house, and then—then, I laid eyes on them!

It was Bunny and Ralph in the flesh who were walking down the pavement, away from me and away from their home! They hadn’t seen me. I guessed from their casual air that they were just gone out for a bracing stroll, not to return home for a while.

This was the chance of a lifetime. The critical moment was on me. Did I stay and try my luck with a maid or a page, while the protagonists were absent? Or did I put Jeeves’s disguise work to use and trail the two of them, unsuspected and at a careful distance?

To make a long story short, it was another fifty minutes later when they finally stopped to rest at a bench, down a footpath in Richmond Park. I was exhausted, by then, and near to re-evaluating the wisdom of my decision. The respite was much appreciated. I sat at and claimed a different bench for myself. My position was some ways back from theirs, yet within earshot, and boasted an advantageous view of them.

What did I learn after cleverly taking all these pains? Not a lick. You see, it was Ralph who did all the talking, from their house to the park to the bench. Take it from me that eavesdropping on a person who doesn’t speak is a wasted effort. He wrote in his handy journal constantly, it’s true, but a fat load of good that did me.

Bunny, who was in an even sadder mood today, was slow to take interest. He was moroseness itself, from head to toe. For Ralph, Bunny could only spare one- or two-word answers. Ralph didn’t seem to mind. The man kept on making conversation. He occasionally added gesticulations, too, and I got the impression from them that this chap would have had a very colourful voice if he weren’t mute.

Actually, Bunny didn’t stay immune to Ralph’s insistent playfulness forever. Slowly, the shadows hanging over Bunny began to lift. While he sat next to his brother in the pleasant weather of the green outdoors, he grew more and more absorbed into whatever it was that Ralph was writing about. I’ve heard that the straightness of the spine worsens with age, but Bunny’s improved from the bent crumple it started at. In the end, to my great shock and admiration, Ralph succeeded in getting Bunny to laugh aloud. 

Ralph grinned like a mad devil. He hurriedly wrote some more, and Bunny, his young-at-heart spirit now freed, laughed harder. Ralph was smugly satisfied by this triumph. That outstanding smugness could have given Sherlock Holmes a run for his money.

So. Ralph was simply trying to cheer Bunny up. That was what this walk of theirs was all about. 

I sighed and collapsed where I was, ready to give up. The sense of international self-importance had diminished significantly. Next time, I thought miserably, I would keep to interviewing the domestic staff while the residents were away from home. That was the reliable, tried-and-true method. There was still plenty of time to do it, too, if I would only find the nearest road and take a cab back to the premises. But I hadn’t the energy for it any longer.

It was a kind of intellectual sulking that I did on that bench. With naught else to do, the mind’s eye reviewed what had been observed. Bunny’s spirits had begun through the floor, but Ralph had surely and slowly built them back up. The latter behaved eternally jovial and exuberant, and this exuberance was apparently stiff medicine to the former.

The brain churned. It churned with great and trying effort, but with great necessity. The nub is that there was something in their problem resolution that brought me back to my own. In other words, would Ralph’s original and prosperous strategy translate to the circs. of a kindly gentleman and his unhappy valet?

It could be in the middle of a woody, private-feeling, walk-lover’s park just like this one, when the wind is just right. Alternatively. There was nothing against the scheme being worked in the real privacy of the home, too, I suppose. Jeeves, standing in (or, as it may be, sitting in) for the part of Bunny Manders, would be the main attraction. Beside him would be me, taking inspiration from Ralph Manders and lightening Jeeves’s spirits. I could wear a smile just for him, and tell him an anecdote or too, until he laughed as Bunny had. (Not as vigorously as Bunny, of course, but with the same pleasant feelings of mirth inside him. Jeeves doesn’t laugh vigorously.) It was a bona-fide fantasy, I know, to think that my words alone could have the power to raise Jeeves from the hole and make him happy. I let myself dream about it for a little while.

Eventually, I raised the bowed head to steal one last melancholy glance at the two seated gents, before calling it a day. Except, there weren’t two. There had been, of course, but not anymore, if you follow me. There was certainly one, and that one appeared to be Bunny, but he was alone in the bench. His companion was absent.

A dark shadow fell over my shoulder. A strange hand fell on my thigh.

I jumped; but the hand was large and much stronger than it looked, and it objected to my leaving. My pulse sped up dramatically to a winning pace. Fearful, but fearful because of the near-certainty of who the owner of this hand was, I slowly spun my head on its neck to see and verify.

Yes, it was Ralph. He had sat next to me, too near, as if we were shameless chums. But we weren’t chums, right now. 

To say that I was frightened to the quick would be an understatement. The customary uncaring cheerfulness of the man was gone on holiday and substituted by a shocking and terrifying lack of no emotion at all. Though, in his defence, who can blame him if he wasn’t pleased with me? He’d just caught the junior detective who was on his track, and it’s no surprise that he wasn’t laughing about it.

I felt that elucidating explanations were in order. “Oh, hello,” I said. The painful noise of my voice cracking was obscenely loud. Ralph didn’t so much as flinch. “Lovely day for a stroll through the leaves, what? You must be wondering what young Bertie Wooster could possibly be up to, made up like a detective out of the cinema, or maybe a Broadway play? That’s assuming that you knew it was good old Wooster in the coat and pork pie.”

The tiny, impossible hope I’d been inwardly entertaining that my disguise had actually fooled him died pathetically in its egg, when he made no sign of taking the news of my secret identity as fresh or exciting. That is to say, he’d figured it out beforehand. He didn’t need me to tell him who I was.

I cleared my throat. “Yes, well, it’s for a good cause, the best cause there is, in fact. Let me see. Where do I begin? Quite by accident, I met Bunny at the office where the publishers, decent and personable chaps though they are right after lunch, don’t know how to appreciate authentic journalism. We fell into talking about something or other, and I discovered who he was, and he discovered who I was, and I invited him to lunch. He said, sure thing, if you’ll just let me bring some of the boys round with me; and I said, right ho.”

Ralph rolled his wrist twice. Get a move on. 

“Right ho.” Pressed as I was under the weight of Ralph’s hand and gaze on me, each like an unshakable knife transfixing a pesky cockroach, I could not dissemble. I was capable of nothing but spilling over the accurate history. Do you remember how I hadn’t wanted to bother Ralph about Jeeves’s rancour, for fear that this nosiness on the part of a caring acquaintance would not be speedily forgiven by Jeeves? Well, I didn’t remember it. “We’ll pass over the in-between and skip to the hour when the personal attendant appeared to become rankled, following the arrival and welcome of Manders number two.”

Finally, there was a facial reaction. Ralph’s brow knitted strangely at the last thing I said. That beautiful sign of human feeling afford me relief. There was less of a presentiment that I was a condemned man walking, or sitting, as it were.

“Rankled may be too light a term,” I confessed reluctantly. “A more fitting term might be irked, or riled. In any event, Jeeves, being Jeeves, was suffering unseen pains, but wouldn’t tell me what they were. To find out what the trouble was, I resorted to desperate measures, which is to say that I undertook stealthy investigation.” Some of that sense of self-importance returned to me briefly, when I mentioned this. “I was advised to begin my errand by interrogating one or many of the inevitable domestic staff who might be in the know. I took a cab—”

“Mr Wooster?” a gentle voice asked incredulously.

My anxious narrative braked to a screeching halt. My neck turned like that of an owl whose thoughts are in another place. I blinked at Bunny, who was no farther than a few feet away. Evidently, he had spotted us, and had decided to go and check out the proceedings. I managed to greet him politely, but only due to the force of habit. I ought to have been expressly gratified by the total want of moroseness in Bunny, but I had a lot of other stuff going on. “What ho.” 

“It is Mr Wooster!” he exclaimed. “What’s going on here?”

This expansion of the group wasn’t too warming to the delicate insides. It’s bad enough to be caught out by person or persons unknown, but when one of the persons is a beloved and revered icon who also happens to fit the archetype of the excessively sympathetic and lenient judge, a generous helping of shame is the natural upshot.

Ralph let me go, at last. He whipped out the paper and pigment, jotted down a few longer-than-average sequences of curves and lines, and then held up the page for Bunny to skim. Bunny digested these. He grew worried-ish from reading them, but he didn’t protest.

“Ralph wants me to tell you,” he said to me, “that he takes responsibility for Jeeves’s ill humour. It was not his intention to upset him, and he is sorry to learn of it. The truth,” Bunny nervously licked his lips, “the truth is that Ralph isn’t a stranger to Jeeves. As a young man, Ralph once lived in a set of apartments where Jeeves was employed as page boy, many, many years ago. They happened to enter into frequent communication, and Ralph became fond of the boy Jeeves. But Ralph wasn’t always on a straight and narrow path, and his reputation has long since come into ruin. He did not wish to thrust his dishonoured association onto the very respectable Jeeves. Therefore, he has kept himself out of Jeeves’s life as much as possible. When we came to your flat, he gave particular instructions to Jeeves, with the aim towards sparing Jeeves’s good name, but which appear instead to have caused regrettable insult.”

“I say! But what were the instructions?”

“‘Maintain the pretence that we do not know each other,’” Bunny answered sadly.

I was silent. The irony was tragic.

Ralph wrote further. 

“Ralph proposes to make amends,” Bunny relayed. “He will apologise to Jeeves. Ralph will show himself to be a friend to him, if we might be welcome to stopping by your flat once more.”

“No, it’s no trouble at all. In fact, possibly, we can go one step further than that!” I said, my pitch changing as a new and ingenious line of thought occurred to me.

“Oh? What do you mean?”

“We will have an encore of the lunch date, but it will be what it should have been! Consider. It will take the form of a lunch for four. We will all be seated at one table. The atmosphere will be positively pally. Ralph and Jeeves will engage in wholesome nostalgia, and all past insult will be gone like rubbish in the wind, or water under the bridge. I’ll acknowledge the setup’s a tad unusual, but it’ll convince Jeeves that you don’t hate him, don’t you think?”

This was, by the way, clearly my own selfishness talking. Although a lunch amongst three gentleman and one valet was all right when in New York, or when shared with Bohemians, it was a laughable extreme otherwise. Ralph and Bunny could be sensibly expected to turn their noses up at me in disgust. I only brought it up because I was seizing on a sudden opportunity to be chummy with Jeeves again. I sorely missed those nights at the jazz clubs, the theatres, and the speakeasies.

To my amazement, however, the fellow English noses were not instantly upturned. The faces of the Manders were uncertain, yet not disgusted. “Jeeves cannot wait on our meal as well as join us in it,” Bunny ventured.

My restless retort was sharp and quick. “Then we shall all dine out at some restaurant someplace.” This was a very bold claim, considering that Jeeves would sooner die than be seen eating with me in London’s public spaces. But I held fast to my enticing vision, as long as it wasn’t being rejected outright. “And I’ll foot the bill.”

Ralph shook his head in the negative. He was pensively still for a moment, after which he smirked and wrote another message. He swapped a nod with Bunny, who beamed brightly at Ralph, and me.

“Ralph and I both agree to your suggestion, Mr Wooster, on the condition that Ralph covers the cost. He wants the dinner to be his gesture of good will to Jeeves, you understand.”

So Bunny said, yet I wasn’t sure I heard him right. I had been under the impression that I was the only bill-footer in a twenty-mile radius of Berkeley Square. More likely, this was one of those conditions made haphazardly in the heat of the moment, destined to be forgotten as soon as the initial enthusiasm had mellowed. I merely went along with it for now. “That’s fine, too.”

Ralph was pleased. The arrangement was ratified by Ralph shaking my hand, like the most old-fashioned of gentlemen. He was smiling and charming all over once more. He wrote one last communication, but this one, he tore out of his journal and gave to me for safekeeping. (The note bore the legible title “For Jeeves” even though the rest was illegible.) Finally, demonstrating more youthful spryness than I myself could boast of, Ralph jumped gymnastically onto his feet, took Bunny’s arm, and tugged him childishly.

“Oh!” Bunny chuckled. “It seems Ralph is eager for us to head off on our walk again. Is that all right by you, Mr Wooster? Good afternoon. It was nice running into you. Ralph and I will make the reservations for dinner, and I’ll send you a note for the place and time.”

“Wait! Mr Manders?” The younger one, I meant.

“Yes?”

I wanted to ask him what he had been so terribly depressed about. I opened the lips to do so, when I was impressed by how awfully happy the bloke looked. I mean to say, the carefree manner with which he had locked arms with his brother touched me to my depths. It wasn’t my place to remind Bunny that he’d had some cause to be glum recently. Better to let the happy pair in peace, since nothing I did or said could improve upon perfection.

I’d known about Ralph’s existence for less than two days, and already I had seen him and Bunny commit peerless actions of fraternal love for one another’s sake, like two olds friends who had been in school together. I’m talking, in particular, about Ralph working to lift Bunny out of the cheerless mood, and Bunny working to take the part of Ralph’s voice box. Besides that, the two were constantly holding hands and linking arms, in spite of their comical difference in height. In short, they were as chummy and inseparable as Holmes and Watson had been. It just went to show, I supposed, that the kind of partnership that Bunny had championed yesterday could exist in real life, and not only in stories.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” I said. “Toodle-pip.”

“Toodle-pip?”

“Until next time,” I rephrased. Then I got up, tipped my hat, turned around, and strode off, and didn’t see or hear from them again until our next meeting.

Despite my desire to see Jeeves, I didn’t go straight home. A break period was needed, first, after the long trudge I had just endured. Thus, I dawdled. I grabbed a bite of lunch someplace, and sat around a great deal, ignoring the occasional furtive looks I received from the common folk in regards to the detective disguise. I spent this period thinking about what had occurred at the park, and what was to come. I would have to tell Jeeves of Ralph’s confession, the correspondence that was “For Jeeves,” and the dinner plans. I couldn’t guess what he would make of any of it, and I preferred not to.

Sooner or later, I did go home. Up the lift, down the hall, before the door, and abruptly there was Jeeves, standing tall with his grip on the knob. “Good afternoon, sir. Will we be requiring a change of clothes?”

After the toil I’d endured as a detective, it was the best pleasure in the world to see Jeeves’s cherished non-smile of welcome, ushering me into our familiar and comfortable rooms. I rushed in. “That can wait, Jeeves! I have important news to share with you.”

“Is this news of an urgent nature, sir?”

“No, I wouldn’t call it urgent, per se, but it’s awfully fascinating.”

“Then perhaps this news can be shared, sir, after a change of clothes?”

I let him have his way.

Once the face was washed of the chemicals and the trench coat was filed away in storage, I thanked Jeeves for the job well done, and swiftly returned to the pressing topics. Quite arbitrarily, I started with handing over the written letter. I surrendered it to Jeeves.

“Sir?”

“It’s from Ralph Manders, for your eyes only. Expect kindness of it. It’ll have to do with how you and he got off on the wrong foot.”

The name of Ralph went poorly with Jeeves. The remainder of my words set him in confusion and disbelief. Without saying anything of substance, he reluctantly accepted the sheet of hieroglyphics, unfolded the wrinkle I had put in it, and read the contents in five seconds or less. We were still in my bedroom, so I had parked the tush at the edge of my bed in expectation of his taking some time to read the thing, but Jeeves was too quick.

“Mr Ralph Manders has given me his permission to speak freely of my past connection to him,” Jeeves intimated. “I’m afraid that I must confess, sir, that I find myself at something of a loss to grasp the context of this development.”

“That is to be expected, Jeeves,” I said, “considering what you’ve missed out on. Have no fear, however, for I can supply the deficiency.” I proceeded to explain the whole day’s happenings to him, front and back, sparing no details.

I hadn’t planned beforehand on whether or not I would be so frank with the man whose back I’d gone behind. It just so happens that I did select frankness. The choice had nothing to do with the fact that I couldn’t fib to Jeeves to save my life. To explain my decision, rather, I refer back to that pristine, perfect image of my seniors, Ralph and Bunny, as they were when they were gaily twisting arms and the like. It put partnership on the brain, you see, and diminished such superfluous considerations as pride and tact.

It was a decision that I had never cause to regret, either. By Jove, it was a staggeringly hefty weight off the stomach to confess the extent of my concerns about the valet’s mental anguish over the unbidden guest, and the short career I’d had as a junior detective in consequence. I was relieved to confess. The lingering nervousness I felt over Jeeves’s unpredictable reaction to the dinner plans was small potatoes by comparison. Jeeves took the account powerfully, too. As he came to see that Ralph had meant him no disrespect after all, the single-minded rage discreetly shadowing his handsome features dulled to merely a conflicted irritation. 

“Thank you, sir,” he said, after I’d finished and was anxiously awaiting his yea or nay to dinner with gentlemen. “It appears that a misunderstanding has taken place. I was not aware of Mr Manders’s true feelings on the subject of our reunion.”

“Absolutely; you’ve hit matters on the head. Even I have discerned what you say to be true.”

“I hesitate to raise one objection, sir.”

A cold shiver ran through me. I shook it off. “Come, nothing is above amendment. What is it, Jeeves?”

“You have indicated that Mr Harry Manders and Mr Ralph Manders will be engaging a restaurant for a party of four, which will include them as well as you and myself.”

“Yes? What is the objection?”

“I would, if I may, sir, request one alteration to these arrangements.”

“You’ve only to name it, and it will be deliberated in its proper order.”

Jeeves didn’t actually pause, but there was a second or so before he continued, and it struck me as a very long pause, which was felt to over-tighten the heartstrings until the notes they played were each at least two octaves too high. “I request, sir,” he said, while I clung to every syllable, leaning forward from metaphorical open-air stands to get a better look at the underdog that I had money on and who was neck and neck with the local favourite, “that the restaurant and date of the reservation both be selected by me.”

I had to catch my breath after that. “Is that all?”

“Yes, sir. To be clear, there is no objection to Mr Ralph Manders paying the bill.”

Was that designed to be a stab at humour? It hardly mattered. I laughed, and very heartily. “Of course! I daresay they’ll be delighted to hear of this involvement. The when and whereabouts of our meeting will be chosen by you, Jeeves.”

“Thank you, sir. I will see to the particulars at once.”

“Oh, before you go,” I cut in.

“Yes, sir?”

“I just want to state for the record—I’m delighted.”

“Sir?”

“I’m delighted, that you’ll be joining us,” I expounded, my heart in my throat. “The table’s a sadder place sans your intelligent conversation to keep it lively, don’t you know.” Unfortunately, the meddlesome strength of the tender emotions choked my speech of gratitude off at the first bend. That was all right, though. It was only crucial that I had let Jeeves know that his attendance at dinner was going to be welcomed and valued.

Jeeves, for reasons unknown, stood still for a bit. He looked like he wanted to modestly thank for me the unexpected praise, and was debating the idea’s merits. Eventually, he did thank me. “That is kind of you to say, sir.” Yet he lingered oddly in my bedroom.

I thought, incorrectly, that he was awaiting permission to leave. “That is all. You may go.”

He meant to go, but then didn’t. Instead, he removed from somewhere inside his coat a novel, distinguished by an intricate bookmark hanging out of the top of it. It was _The Black Mask_ , one of Bunny’s published collections of Raffles stories, and an ancient favourite of mine. In fact, it was taken from my own library of books.

Turning the pages to the conspicuous bookmark, my gaze fell on the first paragraph: it was a description of Ralph, Bunny’s bespectacled brother recently home from Australia. I stopped right there, bewildered, because the Ralph I knew wore no spectacles.

“You may find these introductory passages insightful, sir,” Jeeves said.

This struck me as an odd, yet pleasant piece of advice. I read the first couple of pages. 

Then I read them again, only to be made more confused than before. Then I read them a third time, and finally a fourth time, which lasted longer than the other times. And then I’m fairly sure Jeeves caught me, because the next thing I knew, my lolling head and I were half-suspended in mid-air and I was staring with wide eyes and gaping mouth at my own bent, trembling knees. I couldn’t have believed such an outlandish revelation as this, if it hadn’t been delivered to me by the trusty and all-knowing hands of Jeeves.

Unbeknownst to me, I had met and befriended a fourth treasured hero of my youth—the one-and-only cricketer and criminal, A. J. Raffles!


	5. Sherlock Holmes's Test

“What you have learned of my past connection to Mr Raffles thus far is correct, sir. I am capable, however, of filling in further details, if they are of interest to you. Indeed, for a short while as a boy, I was page at the Albany, the prestigious residential complex in Piccadilly. Mr Raffles was one of many gentlemen whom I ran various errands for. I did not become acquainted with Mr Harry ‘Bunny’ Manders, although there were rare instances when I saw him or passed by him; generally, Mr Raffles requested my assistance during only those periods when Mr Manders was absent, unavailable, unsuitable for the job, or not yet trusted enough for the completion of a given task.”

I was listening to Jeeves recount his life story, or some of it, in the living room. After my unmanly fall into his restoring arms, Jeeves had slung me a brandy and soda to restore those nerves that were shattered by the realization that the infamous Raffles was not only still alive, but also a pal of mine. I don’t expect anybody to forgive my inability to suspect Ralph’s identity without having it spelt out to me. It was silly and naive of me, I concede. I bet there will be an American somewhere, prepared to let me off easy—someone who believes that Raffles’s death was infallible, perhaps, or maybe that the name Ralph is not too similar to the name of Raffles—but let me stop this American at right at that last point. It’s not known by everyone in all English-speaking countries, but in the old-fashioned, posh pronunciation of the name Ralph, the third letter is silent, so that the name rhymes with waif. This L-dropping pronunciation was the one that Bunny had used for his brother’s label. Yes, that’s right: his name was Raif. Sounds an awful lot like Raffles, now, doesn’t it? Not so forgiving anymore, I imagine.

“My advantages to Mr Raffles were my small size and my invisible character as page boy. His advantages to me were his expertise and the occasional tip. I would come to his room; he would assign me a surreptitious task, such as the transportation of an item or the watching of a person of interest; I would return and relay my success or failure; he would pay me the salary that he afforded me, and possibly a bonus, when the situation warranted one. This pattern continued until his alleged death, after which I saw very little of him; that would be his first death, in Italy, not his following death in South Africa.”

“Why, you were like one of the Baker Street Irregulars,” I declared, caught up in the obvious resemblance. I was imagining a diminutive, ragamuffin Jeeves, scurrying around town in dirty street clothes while the stolen goods jingled in his pockets, until the time came for him to waltz smoothly back into Albany wearing the pressed uniform of a page boy.

“There is something in what you say, sir. However, the collection of children known as the Baker Street Irregulars who served Sherlock Holmes was a group of many individuals, whereas I was alone in my position. Moreover, the salary I earned was less valuable to me than was the knowledge I acquired. If you will recall, there have been instances when I have put into use some of the skills that I acquired from Mr Raffles, while in your employ as valet. For example, it was Mr Raffles who first taught me how one impersonates a police officer, determines the authenticity of jewellery, and breaks glass noiselessly with the use of treacle and brown paper.”

“Golly,” I said. I’d always assumed he’d picked up these tricks from books, or maybe from ancestral memory. “And that curious habit you have of carrying a Mickey Finn around—surely that’s related to the business?” It was that habit of his that had always seemed the most suspicious to me.

“Yes, sir. I was instructed on the formation and the utility of knockout drugs at this time.”

“And the kidnapping of dogs, using the smell of aniseed that they find irresistible—you learned this from Raffles, also? It’s not the sort of gimmick one naturally picks up at the schoolyard.”

“It is as you say, sir. I was often sent by Mr Raffles to the chemist’s to fetch the aniseed and other necessary items.”

There were countless other examples popping up behind my eyes, but it would have been redundant to go on. The point was made. I saw the long, dubious history of Jeeves’s incredible tricks and serendipitous know-how in a very new light. On that fated day when the employment agency answered my plea for a valet by sending me Jeeves, I had really hired the services of a famous criminal’s former accomplice, and I’d never known it.

“Continuing on, sir, I did not consider it wise to disclose these truths to you or to any other of my former gentlemen. It would not have lent well to my creditability.”

“No, certainly not! I quite understand. No one voluntarily puts one’s felonious experience in one’s résumé. You don’t still go in for that felonious sort of thing, by the way?”

“I cannot say, sir. It is debatable whether any of the activities I undertook at the direction of Mr Raffles was any more criminal than some of the particular actions that I have taken as your valet.”

The allegation was startling, yet excellent and unassailable. “Well!” I waved a hand dismissively. “Then it’s no concern. I always found your character to be respectability itself, Jeeves, and that hasn’t changed.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said. Then, a small show of vulnerability seemed to pass over his strong features. “It is gratifying to know if I have not lost your confidence through these admissions.”

I was horrified. “Banish the thought!” I cried, greatly animated. “Not a soul in the world can be depended upon if not yours. And don’t the current happenings prove it? Few valets would have the trustworthiness and temerity to enlighten their employers on the theme of their shadier life chapters, as you are currently doing.”

Jeeves was visibly gratified. “Thank you very much, sir.”

“There’s one more thing I can’t figure,” I said, after I, out of a sort of embarrassment at the animation I had just displayed, had calmed down. “The Raffles I grew up with did some speaking. Why didn’t Ralph speak, if he and Raffles are one? Was he shamming muteness—as part of a cover-up, as it were—or is he mute, really?”

“That, sir, I cannot explain. Mr Raffles did not have a condition of muteness while I was associated with him.”

“You think it would be all right to ask him about it?”

“We can only hope so, sir.”

Jeeves informed me that evening that the dinner had been set for several days later. He himself had arranged for those few things that wanted arrangement, and sent news to that effect to the Manders address. The restaurant was to be a casual affair, I was told, and in my opinion, that was sensible. A casual affair was baby steps for Jeeves. The comparatively formal white bow-ties in a classier restaurant would have been frightening scarecrows to him. I couldn’t fathom why we needed to wait several days, though.

Good, you’ve made it through the preliminaries. We can finally get to the critical juncture. As I’ve stated before, your time is valuable. We’ll bypass the length and anxiety of that several days’ wait, and get right to the part where Jeeves and I are sitting at a table together and waiting for our odd acquaintances to arrive.

The restaurant—if it could be called that—was even more casual than I had anticipated. I get a sandwich there sometimes, actually. Jeeves was across from me for the nonce, but I was determined to have him next to me as soon as the pair of inseparable gentlemen appeared and kicked one of us out of his side. Meanwhile, my fingers were tingling, and I kept looking around. Jeeves was more calm and collected.

I asked, “Will our new pals come in disguise, Jeeves?”

“They cannot disguise themselves from us, sir.”

“How do you think?”

“As we have discussed before, sir, Mr Manders walks with a limp. More notably, I have observed that Mr Raffles alters his own pace so that he may walk in step with Mr Manders. Therefore, one concludes that we are watching for two men, one of whom has a limp, the other of whom has slowed himself as if to have one.”

I could have blushed at the outrageously maudlin proposition. A habit as sappy as that wasn’t realistic in a chap, was it? Yet I remembered watching the two of them hike through the streets and then the park, and, on careful reflection, I had to agree that Jeeves was right. 

Until then, I hadn’t been mulling over the implications that Ralph’s true identity had on the fraternal love stuff. Fraternity can exist between best friends, of course. But it was the frozen limit with Raffles and Bunny. “Timing their paces to walk side by side? What chums they must be! They are more like an old married couple than anything,” I exclaimed, to myself as well as to Jeeves, and in a friendly spirit, “the sappy kind that are constantly exchanging pieces of their meals and picking the debris out of each other’s hair.”

“I would not have ventured to say so myself, sir, in that precise language, but I do not disagree with the statement you have made.”

My attention slid coolly back over to Jeeves. He appeared to be relatively comfortable. He wasn’t chummy, but I felt keenly that we were in the middle of something big, and we were in it together. I was his backup, ready to defend him and his interests; and he had gone so far as to make me aware of what those interests were, and to even share a table with me once more. There was understanding between us. A distance had been crossed. I felt more like his partner than ever before.

“Jeeves,” I said, leaning one serious elbow on the clean dining surface between us, “I’m glad you’ve come, but I know this hanging-with-the-boys stuff isn’t your domain. If ever this party gets to be too much, don’t hesitate to walk out. It won’t bother me. I’ll see to it that it won’t bother them, either.”

Jeeves stared at me in amazement. My partnership must have surprised him, I suppose. He replied in a hushed tone. “Thank you, sir.”

I beamed like daisies and sunflowers. It wasn’t bad at all, sitting there with my man Jeeves, waiting anxiously for the action. We also didn’t have much longer to wait. 

It was Jeeves who noticed them first, on account of where he sat at the table. I turned my head to see. There were no disguises, only two recognized men standing at the threshold of the shop and taking it in. It was Bunny, his bowler falling down to be grasped uneasily in his hand, and—

Raffles! A sudden attack of pitiful hero-worship hit me hard. I fought the urge to giggle and sputter.

Hero-worship didn’t altogether pass over Jeeves, either. He stood up, soldier-like, as one does for the monarch, engrossed in the monarch’s entrance march. I would have been envious of that deferential gaze that Raffles was getting, truth be told, if it wasn’t a gaze so tinged with uncertainty.

Raffles, spotting us before his companion, regarded Jeeves with a slow and gracious smile. Silently he approached us. Bunny followed behind him, abruptly glad to see us, yet silent on account of his evident curiosity in what was to next occur.

I stood up now, also, since it seemed to be the thing to do, but my posture had none of the enlisted officer’s bearing that Jeeves’s had. Incidentally, Jeeves was once in the War to End All Wars, and therefore he would have known how to stand like a chap from the military. However, I think it was a long-dormant, now-reawakened sense of duty that he had towards Raffles that made him stand rigidly, and not any bracing call of patriotism. It was the recollection of the pecking order learned during boyhood: Raffles would always be Mr Raffles to Jeeves.

“Sir,” Jeeves said, at the moment when Raffles was halted in front of us and awaiting what show of welcome my valet had for him. 

There was a silent, still space of seconds, during which they kept their fiercely acute gazes locked. Then, Raffles softened. He laid a firm hand on Jeeves’s shoulder, curled the fingers, and smiled sentimentally. He must have been smiling at the boy he used to be so fond of. The valet’s costume and the page boy’s uniform must have seemed the exact same to him.

Jeeves softened, likewise. “It is good to see you again, alive and well, sir,” he murmured. 

A tick later, Raffles’s smile crinkled, and was bittersweet. The man did something that he had never before thought to do while I was around. He moved his lips and mouthed three voiceless words, at a rate slowly enough for Jeeves and for me to know what it was he wanted to say. Those three words were, “I am sorry.”

Jeeves’s uncertainty faded instantly. There was only reverence remaining. “You are forgiven, sir. Mr Wooster explained that your intention was to protect my reputation from your own. However, it was not necessary to conceal our association, an association that has been and continues to be of immense of value to me. I am proud to have served you in my role as page, and I am not averse to publicising that fact.” 

Raffles grinned, a grin as wide and foolish as a boat neck. His eyes glistened with a heartrending mix of regret and delight. I sensed the impending danger.

But before I could stop him, Raffles took a half-step forward, and hugged the proud Jeeves around his broad shoulders. Raffles was a large enough bloke to pull it off, too. He took Jeeves into an iron hold, no doubt with the good intention of imparting into Jeeves all his affection.

Poor Jeeves! He didn’t know what to make of the gentleman’s aggression. 

“Wait, stop!” Despite my spellbound reverence in the presence of Raffles, I couldn’t keep quiet. Stricken with worry for Jeeves, I reached forward to pull Raffles off. “Let go of—”

Jeeves signalled to me, however, to stay back. This request amazed me to no end. Nonetheless, I did as he bade me. I silenced myself, and refrained from intervention. “It’s all right, sir,” Jeeves said to me. He placed a lax hand or two on Raffles’s sides, and accepted the embrace in its proper spirit. All was strangely well.

Eventually, Raffles separated from Jeeves. Raffles was still smiling, though now he had to stop to wipe his thumb across his eye. Bunny clapped him supportively on the (lower) back, and that seemed to help.

“It was very gratifying to learn, sir,” Jeeves said, “that you have, without my knowing of it, taken an interest in my adulthood via the reading of Mr Wooster’s published accounts. I should add that, in accordance with the written permission that you gave Mr Wooster to give to me, I have taken the liberty of disclosing every relevant fact to Mr Wooster, including the particulars of your identity.”

This news fascinated Raffles somewhat. He passed me a child’s innocently curious glance. 

I froze. “Um,” I said. I’ll be the first to admit that it wasn’t very dignified. 

Raffles laughed at me freely, with his face alone. Finally, he took out his trademark journal. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have the thing tied to his wrist for convenience, but what would I know? Raffles honoured the notebook with a message.

“He says it was bad of him, Mr Wooster, not to tell you who he really was from the start,” Bunny said, sardonically. “Blame it on his excitement, for he was very excited when I told him about my meeting you at the publisher’s office. He was keen on meeting the man who was not only a reader of the Raffles stories, but who was also the entertaining biographer of his old apprentice, Jeeves. Additionally, it is a pastime of his to create intrigues where none need exist, and to have fun with his admirers. Hence, he pretended to be my brother upon meeting you. He humbly begs your forgiveness.”

I was touched by the rascal’s roundabout compliment. “There’s nothing to forgive, Mr Raffles!” Then I shook my head frantically, abruptly anxious of undercover police detectives and hidden microphones. “Uh, Mr Ralph Manders, I mean!”

Raffles wasn’t the least bothered about the slip. The possibility of being found out by the constabulary appeared to be only a nostalgic, long-forgotten well of amusement to him. 

Bunny was amused, too. He read off more of Raffles’s continued scribblings. “He hasn’t any fear of being discovered. Ever since I ruined the Ralph disguise by writing about it,” the tone was light-heartedly soupier while Bunny read that jest, “he doesn’t use it anymore, except,” and Bunny smirked, “when he’s playing a joke. You can call him Raffles, or A. J., if you prefer. He considers you a proper friend, he says.” Bunny nodded. “The same goes for me, Mr Wooster. Please, call me Bunny. It’s not often that I go by the name Manders—not among people I like, anyway. May I call you Wooster?”

I swallowed. If my cheeks could turn red, they were certainly turned that colour. “Wooster—Wooster’s fine. Or Bertie.”

“Is the title of Mr Manders offensive to you?” Jeeves asked, foreseeing that this burst of Christian name usages could pose a new and unexpected difficulty for him.

Thankfully, that wasn’t the case. “Oh, no,” Bunny said, “nothing like that. But, if you must, it’s Bunny Manders to you, and not Harry!”

“Mr Bunny Manders,” Jeeves greeted, by way of polite confirmation. Mysteriously, this extremely simple gesture thoroughly delighted the opposing side.

Oh, that’s right. While this talking was going on, we had taken our seats. Jeeves and Raffles were pushed to the wall by myself and Bunny, respectively. Around this time, the waitress came and took our orders. I asked for the usual, and Jeeves bravely ordered something for himself. It probably could have gone without saying that Bunny ordered for Raffles as well as for himself. 

“Before I forget,” Bunny said, once the nice lady had skedaddled, “I have something to apologise to you for, Wooster.”

“Impossible!”

“You see, I wasn’t my normal ebullient self when Raffles and I came over for lunch. I know how you were looking forward to meeting one of your favourite authors, and I’m sorry if I was a disappointment to you. You should know that my low spirits had nothing to do with you.”

I gawked at his misapprehension. The grievous notion that he would feel bad for his bad mood’s affect on me had never occurred to the brain. “Come, come! That’s not a thing to apologise for,” I rebuked him, mildly. “But, where did the sadness come from, may I ask? Or will my asking you that provoke a relapse?”

“No, there shouldn’t be a relapse. Where the sadness came from, you ask? I will tell you, but don’t concern yourself too much about it.” He sighed. “It was my old war memoirs that did it.”

Of all the causes for sadness in a person, war ticked in as one of those serious subjects that I’m not the least qualified to comment on. Any input from Bertram Wooster on the matter of Bunny’s war-related stress would be vapid and useless.

“It’s not that the memories of Africa bothered me. I was merely sad about war in general; the useless loss of life, and all that. But you can see that I’m over it already, thanks to Raffles. Raffles always finds a way to lighten my mood, whenever it darkens. Besides, the memoirs will finally be published,” he declared boldly, “and I am glad for that.”

“In that case, sir,” Jeeves said, “your temporary depression was largely a result of my instigation.”

Bunny was as confused by that claim as I was. “Whatever do you mean? It was the publishing company who brought up the old business again with me.”

“I mean that it was I, sir, who first suggested to the publishing company that your wartime journals could provide the necessary articles that they were searching for to supplement their lighter material.”

Bunny reeled. “What?”

“It was I, sir, who arranged for you to be called in to present yourself and your work at the office, at an hour which it was in my power to influence, and at an hour when I might telephone to the office and cause delays, such that you and Mr Wooster would inevitably notice and speak to one another in the waiting room.”

He had said this with his characteristic ease of manner. Not that it softened the blow any. Bunny and I were floored. Absolutely floored. That incredible meeting between admirer and admired, heretofore a stupendous accident, became a programme prearranged by my ever-scheming valet. It was impossible to wrap one’s mind around it, and yet the claim was too much like so many others that Jeeves had calmly dispensed at various times in our history. Quite absurdly, the middling food we had ordered was set in front of us while we were thus incapable of caring about it. Bunny and I stared at each other, and it was clear that each of us was fairly hard-pressed to believe that we hadn’t met by chance.

Only Raffles was pleasantly thrilled. He folded his fingers, rested his chin on their plane, and begged with intrigued eyes for a satisfying exposition from Jeeves.

“My reason for doing so is contained within this object.” Jeeves dug into his clothes to remove an item from a hidden pocket. I was wondering what reason he could have possibly extracted from _The Black Mask_ , when he removed something very different: it was the enigmatic envelope that Holmes had given to us a long time ago. There wasn’t a dent in it. The seal was flawlessly unbroken. The name of Shinwell Johnson was still blazing along the front of it. I couldn’t guess what Jeeves was driving at.

I didn’t know then, as I know now, that here was where the A story and the B story were ready to collide.

Jeeves passed the envelope to Raffles. “I believe this is for you, sir.”

Raffles, more fascinated than ever, didn’t argue. He took a knife from his meal, and without further ado he cut open the envelope that I had resisted disturbing for many nights. There was only one sheet of paper inside, and Raffles immediately removed this, and unfolded it for easy reading.

Then, he laughed.

This laugh wasn’t confined to the face or shoulders, either. I heard a noise. It didn’t sound like a laugh, exactly. The noise was low, gravelly, and very quiet, not unlike the gargle of a heavy smoker. I assure you, it didn’t have the ring of pain in it, or I would have asked him if he was well.

Once he’d had his fill of being pleasantly occupied by the page’s rousing message, Raffles gave the page to Bunny, who shared it with me. We scanned eagerly over the thing together.

It read as follows:

“Dear A. J., I have written to wish you a very happy birthday today. Please pass my belated wishes to Bunny, whose own birthday I sincerely regret I have missed. Very truly yours, Sherlock Holmes.”

Deeply shaken, I turned to question Jeeves. “How did you know?”

“If you could specify to what subject you refer, sir?” The gleam of intelligence that met me was sharp.

“How did you know that the slippery Holmes wrote this for Raffles after all, and not for Johnson!”

“I knew nothing, sir, until I had read the note.” 

“But how,” I rasped, “could you have read the bally note while it was safely secured in your keeping?”

“I did so the night after we had taken the object into our possession,” Jeeves said calmly. “When one desires to open an envelope while also leaving the envelope undamaged, sir, then one may simply hold that envelope over steam. This will weaken the seal, allowing for the removal and later replace of the envelope’s contents, unblemished. Directly I had steamed the envelope and had read the letter, I recognised the notorious names of A. J. and Bunny in the message, and deduced that Mr Raffles was Mr Holmes’s intended recipient. This deduction, coupled with the observation that Mr Sherlock Holmes had written to Mr Raffles, led to the consequent deductions that Mr Raffles was still alive, and that Mr Holmes’s test was for us to deliver this letter on his birthday. Indeed, I did not know that Mr Raffles was alive, until I had finished analysing that note.”

“Amazing, Jeeves!” I exclaimed. The chain of Jeeves’s logic was totally foolproof. “You stand alone. You are truly without peer.”

“You are too kind, sir.”

“But you’ve left one thread hanging. If the package was for Raffles, then why was it addressed to Porky, and not Raffles?”

“I will come to that shortly, sir. Having learned the date of Mr Raffles’s birth in my youth, it only remained for me to locate him. This, I was able to do through his companion. While Mr Raffles is widely acknowledged to be deceased, Mr Bunny Manders is known to be alive, and is the more easily discovered. As Holmes’s note implied that these two men continued to be companions, I saw no argument against my working to arrange a meeting between you and Mr Manders. Friendship with Mr Manders would sooner or later be tantamount to friendship with Mr Raffles, and after that, it would be trivial to find an opportunity to give him this letter on the correct date.”

“And how right you were!” I fell back in my seat. “By Jove! This is an impressive lot to do, merely to pass Holmes’s off-hand test!”

Jeeves took my words as the most excellent of praise, and held himself straight with dignity. “Did you not also exert yourself, sir?” he said. “You composed several letters in search of Mr Johnson, the delivery of which you entrusted to me, and which I seem to have negligently forgotten to carry out until now. They should still be awaiting postage somewhere in our flat.”

I threw my hands up. “Forget them, Jeeves!”

He bowed his head regally. “Yes, sir.”

“I follow you, up through the events have taken place since Holmes issued the mission. Yet what about Johnson the fellow?”

“You two are very adorable,” Bunny interjected, “but if I might field that one, Jeeves? I think that there is more to Johnson than can be deduced from this letter.”

Jeeves acquiesced gracefully. He and I were both attentive to what Bunny had to tell us. Meanwhile, Raffles had snatched Holmes’s letter again and was considering it thoughtfully.

“The solution is this, Wooster,” Bunny began. “Mr Johnson and Mr Raffles are the same individual. Porky Johnson was one of the disguises that Raffles used when he went by himself into the underworld to deal with fences. You probably read Watson’s description of Porky; it wasn’t a very pretty disguise, to be sure, although those drops that Raffles used on his eyes to dilate them and make them black were a curious trick. Well, here’s what happened. While we were fighting in Africa together—we went to atone for our crimes, I suppose—Raffles and I were wounded in the same battle. I took a bullet to the upper leg, and Raffles took some of a blow of shrapnel to his throat and upper chest. Things didn’t look good for Raffles for a while. Somehow, after many months, he did survive it—at the cost of his speech, and some scarring. However, this was after our identities had been exposed by another soldier who recognised us, so it seemed we were doomed anyway.”

Raffles idly folded Holmes’s note into tiny squares, and tinier squares, while he picked at his dinner. Apparently, he was entirely allowed to twist and damage the letter that Jeeves and I had been bidden to keep in off-the-shelf condition. The former Albany thief did so without compunction as he stared distantly into space.

“Then the famous Sherlock Holmes surprised us. He found Raffles, exchanged a few words, and made him an offer. Holmes wanted Raffles to work for him. Therefore, the deal was that all past crimes would be pardoned, on the condition that Raffles would remain officially dead and completely in Holmes’s charge. Raffles agreed to the deal. I had a little more choice in the matter, but I told Holmes that I sink or swim with Raffles. That was over twenty years ago. Oh, what’s this?”

A new addition in Raffles’s journal was being shown to him. Bunny looked over it, and liked what he saw.

“No, of all the places we did go, we never did have reason to go to America,” Bunny murmured. The two grown-up troublemakers sized each other’s opinion up at face value, and they were invigorated by their unspoken agreement. “Where are they now? Wooster had his photo taken in New York, but—oh, that’s right, the photograph. You never had a chance to see it, A. J.” Bunny looked imploringly to me.

No vocalizations on my part were necessary. I surrendered the photograph for inspection. There’s something about coming to terms with the discovery that four of one’s childhood heroes formed a secret business concern for the majority of one’s young life that makes one do as one’s asked and leave the words out.

Raffles looked at the thing in Bunny’s fingers. The sharp clarity of the jovial faces of the two old men in the picture reached to his depths. The image was, to Raffles and Bunny, fascinating, or romantic, or both. They stared at it for a bit, lost in that nameless and impregnable vortex that greedily sucks the older half of the species into their memories at the drop of a hat.

By the way, I hadn’t forgotten my dream of snatching a matching shot of Raffles and Bunny with Jeeves and self to add to my lonely collection of a single photograph. A certain amount of time has to pass between friends, however, before one friend asks the other for a formal sit-down picture. It’s common and uninteresting for a family of four to rally round for the piano-topper photograph, of course, but not so for fresh colleagues. I had better give it another week, at least. I stuck some food in the throat to keep myself from blurting anything out unintentionally. 

“Sir?” a quiet voice beside me entreated.

The throat was cleared posthaste. I beamed. I was at Jeeves’s service. “Yes, what it is, Jeeves?”

“You have been very understanding through the unfolding of these events, sir. I am deeply appreciative.”

The throbbing of my pulse was jolted and sent aflutter. Not wishing to alienate, I made light of the feeling. “Don’t mention it. It was nothing. That’s what friends do, don’t you know.”

Jeeves almost said something, then wavered, frightened by the steep drop at the invisible cliff’s edge.

Now, you know me. I don’t like to fuss, or demand too much. If Jeeves doesn’t want me to be his friend, that’s his prerogative, not mine, and no one has greater respect for the outcome. Yet Jeeves is my friend, one of the very best, and if you don’t know it already, then I’ll inform you that the Wooster motto is to always help a friend in need. Was he in want of help, presently—help in fitting the square peg of our relationship into the round hole of chumminess?

Yes, he’s proud to be my valet, and entirely proud to serve the public good when he can, but that’s no disqualification for chumminess. Masters and servants are sometimes fairly chummy in America, from what I’ve seen, so there’s a precedent. Employers have been observing joining employees for a diverting night out, once or twice in human history. “Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir?”

I tried a baby step. “Would you like to try a piece of my turkey wrap?”

Jeeves glanced around, on impulse, checking to see who had heard me speak. The coast wasn’t entirely clear; the nearness of Raffles and Bunny was noteworthy in that regard.

My soul fell. The room darkened at its edges. I prepared myself to be turned down.

However, after a moment’s panic, Jeeves mastered himself. He pulled on a hidden reserve of strength. He faced me and smiled that moderate, barely-existent, yet unbearably warm smile of his. “Yes, sir,” he said, “if you will have a cut of my grilled halibut.”

The darkness at the edges suddenly exploded into the bright lights of a thousand little suns. The soul was up. 

I’m sure that Raffles and Bunny were watching, and holding in giggles or comments, as a gentleman and his valet went about slicing off and swapping food on the other side. They might have pretended not to be watching, but I wasn’t thinking about them, anyway, not right then.

End.


End file.
